


Angels Below

by Raphaela_Crowley



Category: Good Omens (Radio), Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Neverwhere - All Media Types, Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley Was an Archangel Before Falling (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), F/M, Fantasy, Floating Market, Gen, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Islington Wants to Kill Gabriel, Islington is Evil, London, Newt & Anathema are Married, No Slash, Richard and Door Miss Each Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25456399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphaela_Crowley/pseuds/Raphaela_Crowley
Summary: The angel Islington has been released and has set its sights on destroying the archangel Gabriel.To prevent a war that would end the universe, Aziraphale agrees to search for Lady Door while Crowley stays behind and hides Gabriel from Islington.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Sandalphon, Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens), Door & Aziraphale, Door & Marquis de Carabas, Door/Richard Mayhew, Gabriel & Sandalphon (Good Omens), Islington & Crowley
Comments: 11
Kudos: 52





	1. Part 1 of 7

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Chapter includes one instance of strong language, reader discretion is appreciated.

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **1** of **7**

Crowley was having a good morning, though he'd never have admitted it.

He was standing in the kitchen of his flat on a clear day which filled it with wintry sunlight, distant yet warm, and Aziraphale – who'd slept over the night before – was bent over the island between the stove and the fridge, contentedly putting together a puzzle of what appeared to be a rather grainy picture of Buckingham Palace.

Everything was spotless – as it always was – but now there was an abnormal sense of domesticity in the usually rather cold, sterile rooms. Crowley almost wanted to _hum_ as he cleared away the plates from the gourmet breakfast they'd just enjoyed; it took a lot of stubborn willpower – mixed with practical fear of an all too attentive Aziraphale noticing his good mood and _smiling_ at him, thus making it that much worse – to refrain.

Suddenly a _buzz_ rang through the flat, the blaring intercom's signal that the doorman downstairs had just let somebody in to visit.

Crowley frowned and dropped a stack of dishes and cutlery which barely looked as if they'd been used into the sink with a _clank_. "Who the heaven would _that_ be?"

Aziraphale glanced up from his puzzle.

Crowley dried his hands on a dishtowel and tossed it at Aziraphale's head. "You didn't miracle the door open for the Jehovah's Witnesses again, did you?"

"They looked so _cold_ , poor things," the angel protested, before insisting that – _this_ time – he had nothing to do with the buzzing.

Reaching for his sunglasses – perched on the edge of the worktop – Crowley slid them onto his face in a single, fluid motion.

There came a booming knock, so rapid it made Aziraphale shudder involuntarily.

"Whoever it is, they're inhumanly fast." Crowley grimaced.

"You're thinking it's one of our respective former sides?" Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder anxiously.

" _Yep_."

"Oh, dear."

The demon scanned the kitchen for something he could use as a weapon, found himself thinking of Anathema on the night she'd hit the Bentley with her bicycle, and gripped the lean, pearly handle of a bread knife before making his way out of the kitchen.

" _Crowley_ ," Aziraphale whispered, following close behind. "What are you–?"

He put his finger to his lips and kept edging towards the door. " _Yeah_?" he called out.

"Demon Crowley," answered a clear, celestial voice from the other side. "We need to talk to you."

Aziraphale blinked in bafflement; it was a voice he'd last heard in Hell whilst pretending to be Crowley. "That sounded like Michael."

"Listen, just because _my_ side has agreed I should be left alone," Crowley snarled, "doesn't mean I want to be pestered by you lot in their place – _go away_."

"I'm afraid we can't do that."

Another voice, slightly muffled, said – to Michael, not to Crowley – "Tell him we have Aziraphale with us – maybe he'll open up for that."

" _Gabriel_ ," murmured Aziraphale, instantly identifying that second voice.

"We have Aziraphale with us," Michael tried next.

"Oh, you _do_ , do you?" Brow lifted, Crowley glanced over at the plump angel in the argyle sweater vest beside him, who shrugged.

"Yes," Michael – apparently desperate – went with that, "and we won't release him until you talk to us."

"Really? You know, I thought you lot disapproved of _lying_."

"I don't have to take this," huffed Gabriel, the door making violent plonking sounds as if it were being kicked. "I'm an _archangel_. Open the fucking door, Crowley!"

"There really is _no need_ for that kind of language!" Aziraphale snapped, lips pursed.

"Oh," the archangel said coldly. "You're already in there. Why am I not surprised?"

"Need we remind you," Crowley cut in smoothly, "he can survive Hellfire? You don't want to mess with us, Gabriel."

"Gabriel," came Michael's voice, very tense and tired, " _enough_." To Crowley, she added, "We're not here to take either of you in – we've come to ask for a favour."

"Why didn't you say so?" Crowley snapped his fingers and the deadbolt clicked. "Come in, then."

Two archangels in clingy pastels fast-walked into the flat and looked around despairingly – they were clearly out of their depth here, within the lair of a diabolical demon. A demon who couldn't be destroyed with holy water.

Michael coughed twice and straightened the lace on her cuffs. Gabriel glared violet daggers at Crowley and Aziraphale.

" _Well_?" said Crowley.

"There has been a recent..." Michael paused, searching for the appropriate word. "...there have been, as of the last few weeks..." She sighed. "I don't suppose, Demon Crowley, you remember an angel called Islington?"

"I do," he replied drily. "Last I heard you lot locked old Islington up and threw away the key."

"Islington _sank Atlantis_ ," Gabriel interjected. "We couldn't let him go unpunished."

Crowley snorted. "You were all ready to destroy the _world_ – Islington was just a little earlier and thought smaller."

Aziraphale snapped his fingers excitedly. "Oh, gosh, _I_ remember Islington – what a good old chap!" He beamed. "We shared a desk once. Dreadful shame about the whole drowning an entire continent and getting locked underground debacle – I was absolutely flabbergasted when I found out, even though it was thousands of years ago."

"Aziraphale, if you wouldn't mind keeping your mouth _shut_ –" Gabriel began, more from frustrated habit than out of actual malice.

Behind his sunglasses, though the archangels couldn't see it, Crowley's eyes had just gone an especially pronounced shade of yellow. "This isn't Heaven, Gabriel." The demon spoke through his teeth, in a low hiss. "This is my flat. Goes by _my_ rules. Around here, Aziraphale can talk as much as he wants."

"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale patted him on the arm appreciatively. "But I do believe I'll take _this_ from you now, if you don't mind." He gently pried Crowley's fingers from the bread knife and miracled it back into the kitchen.

Michael didn't react, blinking impassively as if it were all one and the same to _her_ , but this easy show of affection between the demon and angel clearly caused Gabriel a great deal of self-righteous discomfort; his face was distorted with cold fury.

"The problem _is_ ," Michael interjected coolly, "Islington isn't locked up any longer."

"And I take it Heaven didn't authorize his freedom?" Crowley asked.

"Not yet," Michael said. "It was the doing of a resident of what the humans colourfully refer to as _London Below_ , a lady known as Door."

"Unfortunately," Gabriel added, "the woefully misguided girl was an opener – one of the last."

"So she's released an angel from confinement – that shouldn't be a problem for Heaven, you'll just kidnap him the way you did Aziraphale," Crowley mused darkly. "If you ask nicely, maybe Beelzebub will send up some more Hellfire."

"We can't do that – we don't know where he is," Gabriel admitted, violet eyes flashing as if it galled him.

"But why does that concern us?" Aziraphale's forehead creased. "I can't imagine you want _Crowley and I_ to find Islington?"

"Not _Islington_ , Aziraphale," Michael explained. "If we can't find him, _you_ certainly couldn't."

Crowley bristled; he _really_ didn't like the way they talked to his angel, and he'd already warned them _once_.

Michael continued, "Lady Door, on the other hand... We'd like to have a few words with her – she might help us."

"Why would she do that?"

"We have reason to believe she did not release Islington of her own free will – that she's no true enemy of Heaven."

"I'm not sure I follow you."

Michael sighed. "It's become evident that Islington was behind the murder of Door's family – her father spurned some requests for help in the past; no doubt, Islington held a grudge."

"He's good at that," Gabriel put in. "Always has been."

Aziraphale went white. "But to resort to _murder_..."

"There's more," Gabriel said. "Go on, Michael, tell them."

"We've been trying to work out why Islington didn't come straight through to Heaven." Michael twisted her fingers together, then broke them apart again. "We can only conclude something went wrong, that Lady Door sent him somewhere else on purpose. And as he's out there – unable to be tracked – there's no way guarantee the safety of..." Her eyes slid over to Gabriel. "You can understand the need for discretion."

"Islington has threatened me," Gabriel explained, "on a number of occasions."

Crowley pouted exaggeratedly. "Oh, don't tell me a great big archangel like you is scared of an ordinary angel like Islington."

"It isn't that he's _scared_ , Crowley," Michael said, almost diplomatically, almost _nicely_. "But, at this time, Gabriel's presence in Heaven puts a number of other angels – angels who would be in the way, caught in the crossfire – directly in the path of Islington's wrath, should he eventually turn up."

"My _platoon_ , would they–" Aziraphale blurted, hurriedly, as though he couldn't help himself.

"They aren't _your_ platoon any longer, Aziraphale," Gabriel snarled. "You gave them up when you refused to fight in the only war that ever mattered." He motioned about the length of the flat, and at Crowley. "You threw them away for _this_ – I hope it was worth it to you."

"Will they be _all right_?" Aziraphale hardened his stare, unwilling to let it go unanswered.

"As long as Gabriel is not in Heaven when Islington finds his way there, they'll be perfectly fine, Aziraphale," Michael assured him.

"What, you're just going to put him in some sort of half-baked Angel Protection Program?" Crowley snipped sarcastically.

"In a manner of speaking, yes." Michael took a step back, her hands sliding behind her back as she straightened it so she could look her most commanding. "We would like for him to stay here – with you."

"That would be the favour you mentioned," Aziraphale noted.

"Yes."

"Hang on!" exploded Crowley, flinging up his arms. "You can't just turn up – after conspiring with Hell to have Aziraphale and I both _destroyed_ – and expect me to welcome an archangel into my flat." He turned his head and looked bitterly at Gabriel. "As far as I'm concerned, Islington can _have_ you. I'd like to put up a big flashing neon sign, climb up on the roof, and shout, 'Oi, Islington, here he is!'"

"It isn't only against Gabriel," Michael said, in a tone that remained even, but only _just_. "You may be aware Islington has never liked Lucifer, either."

"You're not suggesting Satan move in as well, are you?" scoffed Crowley, arms folded across his chest. "Because I've only _got_ two beds."

"Heaven and Hell both have reason to view this as a threat." The worry in Michael's face was more evident now – she couldn't keep it hidden.

"You're not working _together_?" Aziraphale asked, stunned and tense – this could be the start of something dreadful, if they were, and he wanted no part in it.

"No, never _together_." Gabriel sounded disgusted at the very suggestion. "But there has been an agreement reached in this specific matter."

At that moment, the television in Crowley's lounge turned on and he walked towards it just in time to see _3_ _rd_ _Rock From The Sun_ 's Dick Solomon turn into Hastur.

Suddenly, Hastur Solomon was _talking_ to him. " _Crowley_. Beelzebub wishes you to temporarily house the archangel Gabriel and keep an eye on him."

"I thought we agreed I was to be left alone, Hastur."

"Listen to me, you complete _bastard_." Hastur fumed, his eyes two smoking inky pools, boring through the screen. "If Islington has his way, there will be another war – not angels against demons, but factions of angels and demons fighting on both sides. It wouldn't be Armageddon – it would be universal chaos. You couldn't hide from it no matter how far into the stars you ran. And the first step in starting this war would be for Islington to destroy Gabriel."

Aziraphale clutched Crowley's arm, murmuring, "Gabriel's demise would be the shot heard around the cosmos." The angel gave his arm a little tug. "The duke of Hell may be correct – we might _have_ to do this."

"Aziraphale, I don't trust them." He turned his head from the television to look at the archangels. "Any of you."

"You don't need to trust us, Crowley," said Hastur Solomon. "You need to think about saving your own skin – even a demon immune to holy water wouldn't stand a bloody chance if Heaven and Hell broke out into uncountable warring factions. Not even a flash bastard like you would escape the ensuing crossfire."

"All we want," Michael insisted, "is a temporary truce while Gabriel stays here with you and Aziraphale seeks the Lady Door."

Crowley shook his head. "Nah. _Aziraphale_ stays here with me; I'm not letting you send him alone on some death mission."

"He wouldn't be alone," Michael told him. "He would be given help from our side – somebody we can trust, of course."

" _Who_?" demanded Crowley suspiciously.

"We were thinking Sandalphon," Gabriel said. "He's always been a loyal–"

" _No_ ," hissed Crowley. "I will not stand for that."

" _Crowley_ ," said Aziraphale softly. "It's all right – I can live with it."

The angel might not have been very fond of Sandalphon, who was – in fact – his least favourite of the archangels, but he understood why Gabriel would pick him. Hiding it though he was, Gabriel was vulnerable and possibly scared right now – he'd want somebody he was close to keeping an eye on the rogue principality. Sandalphon and Gabriel had been close for as long as Aziraphale could remember. Every tasteless joke out of Sandalphon's mouth had always made Gabriel smile; they sometimes squeezed each other's hands when they were nervous during tense meetings in Heaven. Aziraphale might not understand the appeal, on either side, but he was only too aware that Sandalphon was – in all likelihood – to Gabriel what _Crowley_ was to _him_.

"The heaven you can!" Crowley argued, fists clenched. "I wouldn't let Sandalphon look after a _goldfish_ I took a liking to." He wouldn't have let an angel like Sandalphon yell at his _plants_ , even; he didn't want them _that_ frightened.

"Sandalphon has shown his loyalty time and time again," Gabriel fumed. "Unlike a certain principality in this room."

"Oh, that iss jusst like _you_ , issn't it?"

Aziraphale winced – you just _knew_ a debate was getting steep, outright approaching the perpendicular, when Crowley started involuntarily elongating words containing the letter S.

Behind them, Hastur was leaving, slowly turning back to Dick Solomon on screen.

The demon held a hand-mirror, looking intently at himself, examining his pale hair and the squat frog atop his head. "I'm _gorgeous_!" He was gone, the show resumed, and the television turned itself off.

No one noticed.

Crowley's nostrils were flared, Aziraphale was struggling to calm him down, and the archangels were rapidly losing their patience.

The argument – which Michael tried, and failed, to defuse by suggesting possibly it didn't _have_ to be Sandalphon, Uriel was always an option, only for Gabriel to tell her he wasn't budging on the matter – devolved into three angels and a demon all trying to talk over one another.

Then Gabriel shouted, "For Heaven's sake, Raphael, shut your stupid mouth!" and everyone froze.

For a moment, Aziraphale thought Gabriel had meant _him_ – the name he'd just uttered wasn't dissimilar to his own – but the ensuing silence told another story.

Michael had gone crimson; her eyes darted around the room, unsure where they could safely rest; the flat was now an emotional minefield.

Aziraphale blinked, twice, very quickly. " _Raphael_?"

Gabriel glowered. "That's what he used to be called."

Crowley resembled an angry snake cornered in its own hole. "Gabriel can stay, because I don't want the universe to implode, but Aziraphale isn't going _anywhere_ with Sandalphon – do I make myself clear?"

" _Archangel_ Raphael?" pressed Aziraphale, as if there were another one.

"Michael, don't let the door hit you on the way out." Crowley's tone was coldly venomous.

"Oh, my dear fellow–" Aziraphale reached for him.

Crowley swatted him away.

Mildly hurt, Aziraphale offered to make everyone tea – though he knew Gabriel wouldn't drink it, considering it gross matter, and Michael would be gone before he even got the black, copper-rimmed teacups out of the cupboard.

The tea didn't actually matter; it was just an excuse to leave the lounge, a room where the tension was so thick even the littlest dust motes in the air felt like they were tiny bombs going off all around them.

The kitchen had been _so peaceful_ earlier that morning – Aziraphale knew Crowley had felt it as well, that encompassing feeling of everything good in the world, of love – now it was about as welcoming as a black hole.

The angel glanced down at the scattered puzzle pieces on the worktop and the dishtowel on the tiled floor. They were like fragments from another time, a far sweeter age.


	2. Part 2 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **2** of **7**

Aziraphale poked his head through the doorway to Crowley's bedroom. The lights were out, and a dark lump under a grey coverlet suggested the demon was burrowed underneath, asleep.

Atop Crowley's rickety, stylish night-stand, the black teacup from earlier remained half-full – it had been several hours since it had gone, largely untouched, ice cold.

Taking care not to clank the cup against the matching saucer as he picked it up, Aziraphale retrieved the dishes and set them on a wooden tray he'd carried from the kitchen. Crowley often told him there was no need to tidy up after himself – the flat never got messy, he said – but Aziraphale was convinced that the demon (since, prior to their respective sides discarding them, he'd never spent any considerable amount of time living in his own flat), simply didn't understand how housekeeping _worked_.

He understood watering plants and occasionally clearing tables and worktops after a meal or project; that was about it.

Inhaling a deep, quiet sigh, the angel closed the door behind himself and wandered down the length of the flat, slowly releasing it.

Aziraphale meant to go to the kitchen, truly, but found himself temporarily placing the tray beside a bizarre statue of two angels wrestling (one of the precious few decorative items Crowley owned that wasn't either a sketch of the Mona Lisa or made from roughly the same material as a child's glow-in-the-dark stickers).

Hands freed, he approached the door to the guest room and – not without a twinge of trepidation – knocked.

* * *

Gabriel wasn't sleeping, because he _didn't_ sleep. _Ever_.

Instead, the archangel was sitting on top of the immaculate bedspread, fully dressed, still with his pale blue coat and scarves – and even shined shoes – on. He was reading a newspaper he'd found in the top dresser drawer, partly just to have something to do for the next couple of hours, and partly because he was hoping for some clue to Islington's whereabouts. The sooner he found _something_ , the sooner it was safe for him to return to Heaven, the sooner he'd be away from the demon who used to be an archangel and the traitor angel who used to be a dithering pain in his ass.

There came a knock at the door. Speak of the principality.

He sighed heavily, as if he were in the middle of a meeting, and an important one at that, rather than simply sitting there bored out of his skull scanning the dull human-interest pieces and partially filled-in crossword puzzles (generally the only parts of the newspapers Aziraphale didn't habitually throw away).

This whole room, despite loosely retaining the overall air of the impersonal any-man's overnight stop it had originally been designed as, gave off strong hints of Aziraphale's constant presence within. There were two gleaming white-and-blue shirts hung in the wardrobe; a pair of wide-set tartan pyjamas lined the narrow the bottom drawer; a low shelf had six fat, deckled-edged books and a Regency silver snuffbox on one end; an overnight bag – sporting a tartan shoulder-strap – was stationed in one corner.

Crowley hadn't wanted Gabriel to take over the room – the demon had suggested that the archangel could just sleep in the lounge like any other unwanted guest – but he'd pressed Aziraphale until the angel, still subconsciously used to doing what his former boss told him to, relinquished it.

Probably, Gabriel thought, Aziraphale wanted to gather his belongings and move them into the lounge.

"Come in," he called.

The door creaked open. "Ah. Hello, Gabriel. I was wondering if I might have a word?"

"What _is_ it, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale came further in and stood uncomfortably at the bedside. "About this whole going with Sandalphon to look for the Lady Door business–"

"Sandalphon is the only one I trust to make sure _you_ don't screw it up."

"Believe it or not," Aziraphale told him, "I understand that."

"You do?" He was genuinely surprised.

"Yes, but you must know Crowley isn't going to budge on this matter."

"Do it anyway," Gabriel said, as if it were that simple.

"Listen, it's really–"

"Just tell him you talked to me and we agreed on another angel accompanying you, that you're meeting somewhere you'll be inconspicuous."

Aziraphale frowned. "And then what? I go to this place and it's Sandalphon waiting for me?"

Gabriel exhaled heavily. "Good plan, I'd say."

"Gabriel, that would be _lying_."

His violet eyes darkened a shade to royal purple. "You lied to me for six thousand years – you can lie to a demon _once_ for the greater good."

"Gabriel–"

"You told me he never spotted you."

"Well, yes, I _did_ say that, but–"

"Time and time again, you told me that."

"You–"

"Do you know how _humiliated_ I was when Michael went through the earth observation files and had picture after picture of you and Crowley together?"

"I imagine that was rather uncomfortable for you," Aziraphale managed to get in.

"And I _defended_ you," Gabriel exclaimed, tossing aside the newspaper and glaring. "On top of everything – including the vile evidence of your endless lies staring me in the face – I _defended_ your worthless feather-duster wings!"

This seemed to catch the principality unawares. "You _did_?" He wrinkled his forehead. "But I don't understand. If you were trying to defend me, then why did you send Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon to corner me outside my shop?"

Gabriel blinked. "I _didn't_ , Aziraphale."

"But you didn't stop them, and you _did_ try to have me destroyed."

"You stopped Armageddon, _sunshine_!" His tone had gone nasty. "What was I supposed to do? Give you a smack on the wrist?"

"You could have shown a little compassion, Gabriel," said Aziraphale, very quietly. "It's what good guys _do_."

"Don't talk to me about what good guys do." His gaze hardened even more, which scarcely seemed possible, as he'd already been glaring daggers. "Good guys don't fraternize with demons."

"No," said Aziraphale icily. "I suppose they don't." A bitter, brittle smile spread across his face. "I suppose they simply demand favours from them on occasion, should the need arise."

"You realise he's going to get bored of you eventually, right?" The look on Gabriel's face untwisted itself, unfurling into an expression of mocking pity. "You're not that interesting, Aziraphale. When he finds something better to do, where will you be then? _What_ will you be then? Just a stupid, friendless, overweight shopkeeper who – back when he was part of something important – abandoned his platoon on the day the world was supposed to end.

"I hope you enjoy that for all eternity. You've earned every sad, dragging second of it."

Aziraphale had to turn his head away for a few moments – he was weak, as Gabriel suspected. Strange how soft and pathetic he was, when you considered that Hellfire couldn't burn him. Well, when you thought about it, all that _really_ meant was he couldn't even _die_ properly.

Gabriel couldn't resist getting in a final jab. "You always did love too excessively, Aziraphale."

"How does any of this," said the angel at last, "solve our problem? Lady Door still needs finding – Islington needs to be stopped, or at the very least reasoned with. You and I bickering, pecking at one another like a pair of old hens, won't fix anything."

"Lying to Crowley will," Gabriel said flatly. "Way I see it, that'll fix a lot."

" _No_."

"You think he doesn't lie to you? Wake up and smell the coffee! He's a _demon_."

"He wouldn't do what you're suggesting I do – not to me, not like this."

"You don't actually believe that," scoffed Gabriel, rolling his eyes. "There's a lot of things he's keeping from you – you didn't even know his real name before today."

Aziraphale was suddenly fixated on the pattern of the bedspread. His elegantly manicured fingers numbly trailed the threaded seams, sliding along the thin running-stitches.

"You can't fool me. I saw the look on your face when I slipped up and used his angelic name. Six thousand years of clandestine meetings – making you think he understood you when the big bad bureaucracy of Heaven just _couldn't_ – and he never even told you his _name_." Gabriel leaned forward. "That's one hell of a big red flag, wouldn't you say?"

"Where'm I meant to meet Sandalphon?"

"There's an old bandstand, down by–"

The principality swallowed. "Not there."

"Why not? It's convenient."

" _Gabriel_. Not there." He was adamant. "I'll do what you want – not for any other reason than I don't wish to see the universe go completely to pieces – but not _there_. He'll have to meet me some place else."

* * *

Guilt weighed heavily on Aziraphale as he returned to Crowley's bedroom and looked down at the dozing demon. This was already agony, cutting his conscience to the quick, and he hadn't even _done_ it yet. He couldn't wait until morning or he'd crack; he'd never be able to go through with it if he had the rest of the night to dither. His imagination was nowhere near as good as Crowley's, but it could sufficiently imagine the emotional ramifications of lying to one's best friend.

Climbing into the bed on the opposite side, Aziraphale put his arm around Crowley and shook him gently. "Wake up, dear."

" _Wot_?"

"I've just been talking to Gabriel."

"Mmm?" He rubbed sleepily at a dilated eye. "What's he want now?"

"He's agreed Sandalphon doesn't have to go with me to search for Lady Door." He forced a warm grin. "I'll be perfectly safe – just tickety-boo."

The expression on Crowley's face – what Aziraphale could see of it in the darkness of the room, anyway – changed entirely. Suddenly it was very evident Crowley had not been so groggy as the angel thought; he was very alert, and very hurt.

"You actually did it," he whispered brokenly.

"Oh, _Crowley_..."

He sat up and shook his head. "I didn't think you'd actually go through with it."

"You weren't asleep," Aziraphale realised, hating himself. "You were listening the whole time."

" _Yep_." Shining amber eyes gazed at him accusingly.

"How..." He cleared his throat. "How did you hear us?"

"Nothing happens in this flat I don't know about, angel."

"I'm so sorry."

"You actually conspired with Gabriel and _lied_ to me – after _everything_."

What could Aziraphale say? That he was only trying to do the right thing? That, technically, he hadn't needed Crowley's _permission_ to go?

"Crowley, I–"

The demon grunted, flung back the covers, and crawled over the edge of the bed before stalking angrily out of the room.

Aziraphale watched him disappear through the doorway; a slick, slouched shadow. He knew he probably should go – shouldn't linger in Crowley's room after what he'd just done – but he couldn't bring himself to get up. The weight of the cosmos was holding him down, and if nothing else the bed was a soft place to sink into as he stared miserably at the wall.

Although he had no actual evidence of it taking place, Aziraphale's imagination dredged up a picture – one that felt very real – of Crowley crying in the lounge and refused to stop showing it to him behind his closed eyelids.

Tears pricked the angel's eyes and he let a few of them fall before hastily wiping the remainder away.

* * *

Crowley wasn't in the lounge, and he didn't actually cry, but he did sit on the floor – his thin back pressed against a large black flowerpot – with his face buried in his hands for several long, dragging moments.

A leaf suddenly touched his shoulder.

He glanced up and gave the houseplant a scathing look, and it reconsidered.

The leaf swung idly aside, feigning innocence.

It only added insult to injury that he'd been reduced to a state in which even the plants, whose continued existence he threatened on a daily basis, felt sorry for him.

"Don't touch me," he snarled at the plant. "Come near me again, Swiss-cheese plant, and it's hello waste-disposal unit for you. _Understand_?"

It trembled, flowerpot vibrating in terror.

" _Good_."

He got up and headed to the kitchen. He needed a drink.

Aziraphale's Buckingham Palace puzzle was still there, on the island, even though all the pieces were back in their box now. The rectangular box looked so out of place, so cosy and _homey_ , in the stylish kitchen.

Crowley's fingers tentatively gripped the stem of a wineglass, then he changed his mind, let it go, popped a cork, and just brought an entire bottle to his mouth.

After a long swig, he took another.

And another.

Several swigs later, he was staggering towards the guest room.

The door was closed, so he kicked it open, heedless of the potential lack of return on his rental deposit.

"Do you mind?" huffed Gabriel, who stood up and walked over to him confrontationally. "What if I'd been disrobing?"

"If _anything_ –" Crowley began, in a slurred hiss.

"Oh, dear God, you're drunk."

"If _anything_ happens to Aziraphale, and I find out Sandalphon could have prevented it–"

"Crowley, for Heaven's sake–"

"For _Heaven's sake_ ," he slurred, in a sugary, mocking imitation of Gabriel's tone, "you better pray every damn night Aziraphale comes back in one piece, cheerfully escorting Lady Door into the flat, none the worse for this little errand you've sent him on."

Gabriel grimaced at the unsteady demon swaying and swaggering in front of him. "You're disgusting. How did you ever sink so low?"

Crowley concentrated, sent the alcohol rushing out of his bloodstream, then – stone-cold sober – looked Gabriel dead in the face, his eyes merciless. "And if you think I'm not going to make your life here a living hell after the way you talked to him tonight, you're _dreaming_."

"Control yourself, _please_ ," said the archangel. "This is getting pathetic."

"I'm in _perfect_ control." With a snap of the demon's long fingers, the windows in the room behind Gabriel opened and shut rapidly and the wardrobe doors flapped like they were having some sort of spastic fit; lamps flickered; something in the walls _moved_.

"Good _night_ , most holy Gabriel," Crowley called sardonically over his shoulder as he turned away. "Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."

Something – maybe a branch – thudded against the windows, though they were safely closed again and remaining so.

Gabriel jumped in spite of himself.

* * *

Something burrowed against Aziraphale's back.

"Is that _you_ , Crowley?"

The something grunted; the mattress shifted slightly, and the angel sensed he was being looked down upon with restrained annoyance. "What kind of stupid question is that? What else would it be, an _aardvark_?" Crowley grunted again, then settled back down.

"You're not angry with me?" murmured Aziraphale, hopefully.

"Positively _furious_ ," said the demon, in a voice that wasn't, not particularly.

"But–"

"If you're leaving tomorrow, I'm not going to waste my time being mad at you _now_ – I can be just as angry with you gone as with you here."

"That's rather sensible of you," Aziraphale decided.

"Thank you," he replied, a little coldly.

"Crowley?"

"Wot?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

The demon's arm snaked around him. "No."

"All right then, my dear. Goodnight."

" _G'night_."

* * *

After waiting hours for somebody to be up and about proper daytime business in the damnable flat, Gabriel stomped into Crowley's bedroom, forcing the lock, only to find Aziraphale sleeping soundly with his wings out, sprawled across the width of the mattress.

 _The hell's he_ doing _?_ thought Gabriel, deeply annoyed. _Angels don't need to sleep and he's meant to be meeting Sandalphon so they can search for the Lady Door today._

Aziraphale also appeared to be _snoring_.

"Disgusting display of laziness," Gabriel muttered disdainfully.

Perplexing, though, was the fact that Aziraphale's _wings_ also appeared to be snoring. The archangel could distinctly see the feathers rising and falling, as though they were breathing separately of the principality.

Separately, yet in eerily perfect rhythm.

When Aziraphale drew in a long, slumbering breath, Gabriel distinctly heard the wings go, " _Memememe_..." as the feathers fluttered upward in an exhaling sort of motion.

Upon closer inspection, it became clear that there was a large black snake coiled up between the wings.

A snake, slowly waking, who was less than thrilled to see Gabriel hovering over it judgementally, watching it sleep.

The snake slithered out from under the long white feathers, lengthened into its favourite shape, and Crowley was standing there; he leaned over the bed and shook Aziraphale's shoulder.

" _I_ would _never_ ," Gabriel commented, feeling awkward at not even being addressed, "let a demon touch my wings."

"Oh, I'm sure you wouldn't, Gabriel," simpered Crowley, without looking at him. "But would any self-respecting demon _want_ to touch _your_ wings?"

Aziraphale – just awake enough at that point to appreciate this – drew in his wings and bit back a smile.

A smile which disappeared altogether as soon as Gabriel reminded him what he was doing today.

* * *

The buzzer rang.

Aziraphale answered the door, greeting – to his surprise – the same deliveryman he'd seen on the day the world was supposed to end. He'd signed for a package, and the man had asked him if he believed in life after death.

It felt sort of nice to see him again, if a little foreboding.

"Package for you, sir," he said, very officially, extending a box and a clipboard.

After he signed for it, and told the deliveryman to give his best to his wife and to mind how he went, Aziraphale brought the box into the lounge.

Gabriel seemed to already know what it was, paying him no mind while he rummaged through Crowley's collection of VHS tapes in the background, no doubt hoping – very much in vain – to find a copy of _The Sound of Music_.

Instead, he found only _Mary Poppins_ , _The Exorcist_ , _The Omen_ , a misplaced laserdisc of a Ken Russell film, and several home-movies with neat labels in copperplate handwriting that had titles like _Crowley Eats Miso Soup_ and _Crowley Feeds The Ducks_ and _Newt & Anathema's Wedding _and _Crowley Threatens To Break The (Expletive) Camera If I Don't Turn It Off_.

"Damn," muttered Gabriel, tossing _Crowley Feeds The Ducks_ aside and reaching the tail-end of the limited selection.

Aziraphale barely heard him; he was transfixed by the package. He peeled back the packing tape and bent the cardboard flaps over.

In the centre of the box – lying there harmless and sheathed, for _now_ – was his flaming sword.

* * *

Crowley insisted on driving Aziraphale the seven minutes to Trafalgar Square (where he was supposed to meet Sandalphon), despite the fact that the angel had intended to take a bus.

They were awkward with each other.

Even though he clearly wanted to, more than once, Aziraphale didn't upbraid his friend for speeding – which, for reasons he wouldn't have admitted if the angel asked, he wasn't doing nearly as much of as usual.

The Bentley was silent apart from the voice of Freddie Mercury coming out of the cassette player until Crowley – knowing he couldn't put it off any longer – reached out and turned down the volume.

" _Angel_."

Aziraphale, who'd been looking out the window, turned to face him.

"I wasn't keeping it from you, you know."

"Er, what was that?"

"The fact that I was an archangel – I wasn't hiding that from you, it's just not something I talk about."

"It really isn't any of my business," said Aziraphale, with forced politeness, in a tone that suggested he thought it _was_ rather his business – at least a _little_ – but it would be awful of him to _say_ so, especially after the stunt he pulled last night.

"What Gabriel said to you," Crowley said next, making a left onto Piccadilly. "It won't happen. How long have we been friends? Six thousand years. I'm not just going to suddenly decide you aren't worth my time any more."

"I know you wouldn't do anything of the sort, Crowley, it's just..." He trailed off.

"Heaven's still good at putting doubt in your mind?"

"Something like that."

"You don't have to do this," Crowley mumbled, gripping the steering-wheel a little more tightly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You don't have to go through with this – I can turn around and drop you off at the bookshop."

"Actually, I believe I _do_ have to," Aziraphale insisted. "Not knowing where Islington is..." The angel closed his eyes. "The thing is, Gabriel was right about one thing – I _did_ abandon my platoon. I just decided I wasn't going to fight, and left them all standing there, confused as anything, with the quartermaster." He glanced down at the sword spread across his lap. "I _had_ to do it, I'm not saying I had another choice, but maybe finding Lady Door and helping Heaven stop Islington from making another terrible mistake can make it up to them now."

"You realise they'll kill him, of course."

Aziraphale blanched. "Surely they..."

"Islington is lower in rank than you," Crowley pointed out. "If they could destroy _you_ without the slightest pang of conscience, what chance does _he_ have?"

"Did you..." Aziraphale stammered. "Did you ever meet him?"

"You mean when I was Raphael?" The corners of Crowley's mouth tightened. "Yeah, actually. Several times. He was always getting into trouble."

"What did you think of him?"

"Oh, I liked him," Crowley said, rather amiably. "Quite a bit. Fun at parties, you know. Lucifer didn't, though – he couldn't _stand_ the guy. They were always insulting each other. It got pretty nasty, if I'm remembering it right. Couldn't put them together on any project without it going wrong."

"I was fond of him as well," Aziraphale sighed. "Which is why I can't imagine him..."

"Murdering an entire family out of pure spite?"

He nodded. "Mmm-hmm."

They were zooming down Pall Mall now – they'd be there momentarily.

Aziraphale swallowed. "Before I go, I want to ask your forgiveness for what I did last night – I actively tried to deceive you and that was extremely dreadful of me."

"Demons don't forgive," he told him, offhanded. "Forgiveness is a heavenly virtue."

A little hurt, the angel nodded. "I understand."

The Bentley came to a stop. They could see Sandalphon standing beside a fountain, waiting, with his back to them.

Aziraphale lifted the sword and reached for the door-handle. "I'll see you soon."

"Give 'em hell," said Crowley, in a light – almost careless – voice that did not match how he actually felt.

As soon as Aziraphale had closed the Bentley door, waved goodbye, and was heading – with his shoulders back and a grim expression on his face – towards the fountain and Sandalphon, Crowley whispered, "I forgive you."


	3. Part 3 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **3** of **7**

"Hello, _Azi-raah-phaleee_." Sandalphon spoke slowly, over-enunciating.

The archangel sounded rather like a Hollywood stereotype of a medieval king attempting to address a particularly mucky peasant, right down to the way his nose seemed to twitch with displeasure after each pretentious breath that passed his fat lips.

Bit over the top, Aziraphale thought, and only avoided rolling his eyes through sheer willpower.

The principality had decided he wasn't going to give Sandalphon's obvious animosity any further fuel. He wasn't even going to do what he thought Crowley would have done in his place – namely keep the archangel on his toes by reminding him, in small suggestive ways, how scary he was despite his soft appearance, this little plump angel who could survive Hellfire and who knew what else.

No, if at all possible, he was going to do this right and proper. No intimidation, no threats. Do the job, find Lady Door, hope for the best for Islington (bleak as its prospects unfortunately were), and go back to the flat. Soon this might all be over. Soon he might be at the Ritz with Crowley, laughing about this over a fine lunch.

"Yes, hello again, Sandalphon." He smiled tightly. "How have things been?"

Sandalphon didn't reply to this. Instead, he sniffed, his voice exceedingly nasal, "You smell evil."

"What nonsense," he said evenly, trying to be both firm and inoffensive. "Now, then, about what we've got to do–"

"You know, just because you spend all your time cavorting with demons doesn't mean you have to _reek_ like one."

Aziraphale tightened his grip on the flaming sword's handle. "Please, if you don't mind, I'd very much like to get this over with."

Sandalphon's eyes darted to the angel's manicured hands. They looked dainty, but they _were_ gripping a sword, however idly. He was a semi-ignorant bully more than he was a proper idiot. "Yes, well, we'd best discuss what we know so far. Shall we walk?"

Aziraphale nodded and trotted down the square at Sandalphon's side. "Would you like to get something to eat?"

Sandalphon wasn't like Gabriel – sometimes _he_ consumed so-called 'gross matter'. He just told the others he didn't, and for some reason they believed him.

In the past, Aziraphale had always supposed it was just blatant favouritism because of rank, that archangels stood by one another no matter _what_ ; but learning that the 'lost' archangel Raphael – the fallen one – had been _Crowley_ all along put rather a different spin on his perspective.

Even the way Gabriel said his demonic name, on the occasions he asked if they'd had any run-ins, had been so utterly... _dismissive_... Not uttered as if he were, deep down, mourning a friend closer than a brother – which was what Aziraphale had always supposed the bond between archangels to be like.

Anyway, Sandalphon agreed to stop for a slice of pizza.

They went to Bianco43, where one of the servers instantly recognised Aziraphale, and came up and asked him who his new companion was and – a little worriedly – what had happened to the charming, dark-haired fellow in the sunglasses he usually came in with.

Sandalphon said something condescending, but for perhaps the first time in his long but limited existence he was in an environment where nobody particularly cared what he thought; Aziraphale was the _regular_ , a valued customer – they cared what _he_ thought.

"Oh, Crowley's quite well, thank you," Aziraphale assured them (it was 'them' now, as a few of the other servers had come up and asked the same question – they'd formed an anxious little queue). "And I'm afraid we won't be sitting down – we're in a frightful hurry today. Just a couple slices of diavola and some serviettes, if you please."

They got the slices and serviettes, then – with a friendly wink from the first server – discreetly handed Aziraphale a folded-over brown bag. "Dessert's on us today, love. Give Anthony our best, yeah?"

"Of course." He smiled warmly. "Thank you. That's very kind."

"I thought them very unpleasant," Sandalphon commented, as soon as they were out on the pavement again.

"Nonsense," said Aziraphale.

"It's not nonsense," argued Sandalphon; "where's their love of stranger? One never knows when one might be entertaining angels." He puffed his chest out self-importantly.

" _The Lady Door_ ," Aziraphale pressed, changing the subject, thinking it best to steer the conversation firmly away from anything that might put Sandalphon in the mood for punishing or smiting on behalf of his wounded pride. "Where do you think we ought to start looking for her?"

"The Floating Market is the ideal place to start," Sandalphon told him, taking a bite out of his slice. "They've only got people from London Below there; the lady herself may show up."

"And if she doesn't? Then what?"

"Then we find ourselves a guide to take us below the city and search for her there."

Aziraphale nodded, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a serviette and wiping his fingers clean for good measure. "Seems simple enough. Where _is_ this Floating Market of yours?"

"Different place each time," the archangel explained. "But I've reliable sources that say tonight's will be held at The Royal Opera House."

" _Covent Garden_?" Aziraphale blinked, mildly surprised. "But I heard they were under temporarily renovations. That's why there aren't any performances on and the terrace cafe's been closed."

"An overly elaborate cover-up, no doubt, typical of the sort of sewer folk holding the market – they don't do anything by halves."

"But if we're going to a marketplace full of displaced persons," Aziraphale pondered, not unreasonably, "shouldn't we be worried about our safety? We'd be strangers to everyone attending."

"There's a truce in the marketplace; nobody is allowed to attack anyone during the proceedings." He spoke with forced weariness, as if Aziraphale really _ought_ to have known that, because even an idiot would have, but not as if he were all that _shocked_ by the principality's deplorable ignorance.

"Oh."

"In the meantime, keep an eye out for anyone who seems... _unusual_..."

"Yes, I suppose we need all the help we can get."

" _You_ might – _we're_ doing fine."

Aziraphale looked at him. "If Heaven was doing fine, I wouldn't be here right now."

"It's just an upstart," sniffed Sandalphon. "Islington will be dealt with and Gabriel will be back in Heaven soon enough."

Despite himself, Aziraphale almost _pitied_ Sandalphon in that moment. He was – like Aziraphale – separated from his best friend by all this.

" _You_ ," the archangel continued, "can go back to demeaning yourself with that creepy-crawly demon and everything will be as it was."

The moment was more or less over. Aziraphale pursed his lips and trudged on. For lack of anything else to say, the awkwardness only increasing as they continued grimly on the seven minute walk to Covent Garden, the angel eventually blurted, "I _do_ hope Crowley and Gabriel are doing all right."

"What's the worst that could happen to either them _there_?" said Sandalphon, as if flats in Mayfair were by nature's law some sort of emotionless void where the two of them would be suspended in harmless abyss-like inaction, proving once and for all that he had absolutely _no_ imagination.

" _Well_..." Aziraphale's mind dredged up an ungodly scene of Crowley being escorted out of his building by befuddled policemen while Gabriel stood at the landing, draping himself over the banister melodramatically, barking for them to lock the demon up and throw away the key.

Perhaps not _very_ likely to happen, but worrisome in the angel's estimation nonetheless.

He cleared his throat. " _Erm_."

* * *

Gabriel turned on the hot water and prepared to step into the shower before he noticed something _red_ – dark, _deep_ red – pooling around the otherwise sparkling chrome drain.

He craned his neck and looked up at the nozzle, which seemed to be producing crystal-clear water the coagulating, stinky mess on the shower floor didn't match with.

A few drops landed on his forehead, thick and sticky, and ran slowly down the sides of his face.

" _Yuck_!" (or perhaps it was something that _sounded_ like yuck, but with a different first letter; Gabriel could have gone either way).

Ripping a towel from the nearest cabinet, the archangel wiped his splattered, dripping face clean and hastily threw his clothes back on.

Crowley was sitting in the lounge, causally flipping through a gardening catalogue. "Gabriel! How was your shower? Nice and relaxing?"

"There's _blood_ in the shower!"

" _Is_ there now?" he said obtusely, turning a page. "Well, how about that."

"Crowley, I _swear_ –"

"Oh, you _really_ shouldn't, you know, being an _angel_ and all that."

Gabriel whirled around in a huff, muttering furiously. A few seconds later, Crowley heard the guest room's door slam and smirked to himself.

"Day _one_ , Gabriel," he said, with dark satisfaction, turning another page. "Oh, would you look at that; there's a sale on topsoil coming up."

* * *

Aziraphale and Sandalphon had been hiding backstage at the at the Royal Opera House for hours before the preparations for The Floating Market began – at least, before they began in _earnest_.

Aziraphale watched with fascination – and a little horror, given some of the unsanitary items being dragged in – as sellers began setting up their booths.

They constructed them everywhere that wasn't needed for a path. They constructed them between theatre seats in the auditorium, on the stage itself, in the lobby, and – when the angel crept that way to check, ignoring Sandalphon's mutters of disapproval as he darkly pointed out the truce didn't actually start until the market did but if Aziraphale wanted to get his throat slit that was his own idiotic affair – he saw they'd set up in the cafe area, too, littering the terrace with their bizarre clutter.

Some of the things they had there were remarkable – jewels all the colours of the rainbow which looked very real, yet surely _couldn't_ be real because they were as big as golf balls and just piled in heaps, for instance!

Shockingly, these treasures were being set up alongside heaps of what could charitably, if one was willing to season one's words with _a lot_ of salt, be called rubbish.

When Aziraphale saw the cartloads of old second-hand mittens and worn shoes and 'shawls with only one or two holes in them' his heart bled for these poor people who dwelt in London Below. He pitied them all, sight unseen, thinking how very cold they must be, how hungry, how in need, and wished he'd thought of them before now – that he'd thought to do a miracle or two for these poor, cast-out, forgotten souls.

He was, he feared, no better than the heedless humans in London Above who never saw the poor dears as they shuffled along, never heard their whimpers or noted their suffering.

He hoped _Islington_ – in his time below, prior to this mess, imprisoned and limited though he'd been – had done _something_ for them.

Aziraphale ducked beneath a concealed ladder as somebody shuffled by, scratched themselves somewhat inappropriately, and then draped a moth-eaten curtain over their ramshackle booth of bent nails and chewed ballpoint pens.

Technically, truce or no truce, he didn't have to hide like this, not with his flaming sword at hand.

It was true he hadn't used it in a while, but it was the sort of thing you didn't forget, like riding a velocipede; it always came back to you once you started up again.

But he didn't want to fight these people – it would be like stealing the last woolen sweater from a box of donations, a low-grade cruelty that wasn't unspeakable in and of itself, depending on the circumstances, yet still certainly earned you a frowning and a telling off.

A woman with matted hair dressed in a suit several sizes too large for her narrow frame waddled by carrying a black cooking-pot from which steamed the most vile boiling smell.

Retching, Aziraphale reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it to his nose as he made his way back to Sandalphon.

* * *

When they came out again, once the market started, Aziraphale was amazed to see that it had transformed from what amounted to what he considered desecration of a place of art and expression – even if it would all be gone by morning – to a veritable _fairyland_.

Lights glittered, crystal glasses and tin coins clinked; the most astonishing people wove in and out of artificial passageways. Goods and baubles changed hands; the stage lights came on and a young, golden-haired girl selling old radio cassette players and gently-used wristwatch batteries danced with surprising elegance, bouncing onto her toes and sliding back onto the balls of her feet.

There _was_ a show on tonight, several of them, all exclusive to this remarkable lot. The closure signs that kept those from London Above out had been intriguingly mistaken.

The two angels paced the length of the market, back and forth, searching for any sign of Lady Door.

"Do we..." Aziraphale cleared his throat. "Do we know what she _looks_ like?"

Sandalphon looked at him as if that were the stupidest question in the world.

"I'll take that as a no," he said, reaching for the handrail as they made their way down a crowded staircase containing far too much traffic moving in both directions.

A folding table missing one leg was set with tall frosted glasses of a cloudy liquid. The rather greasy person behind it, pouring the liquid into these glasses with a finger-smudged ladle, offered Aziraphale a glass. "Bottoms up, mate."

He looked to Sandalphon to see what he thought, but the archangel was busy scanning the space behind the table for signs of anybody who might know something useful.

Shrugging, the angel accepted a glass, only for his arm to be jolted by a passerby and the sloshed liquid to spill onto the floor, where it turned vivid green and started eating away at the varnish.

"Oh...er..." He set the glass back down and smiled tightly. " _No_. No, thank you."

"Makes no difference to me," they muttered, wiping their nose unbecomingly with the back of their wrist.

"You don't," Aziraphale decided to try, "by any chance, happen to know where I might find the Lady Door?"

"I en't seen the likes of her since Portico got himself killed – that's her father, Lord Portico."

"Thank you most kindly anyway."

"That's a nice sword you've got there."

"Yes, I suppose it is, rather."

"Don't suppose you'd be willing to trade it."

"You suppose right." He widened his eyes pointedly.

"Fair enough. What about that pocket handkerchief sticking out of your coat-sleeve there?"

He was appalled. "My dear fellow, that's _used_."

"Makes no difference to me."

"Good lord."

"Anyways, if you can see yourself handsing it over," they said, "I could tell you about somebody as more helpful about Lady Door than I am – point you in their direction, like."

Trying to keep his face from twisting with revulsion, Aziraphale handed it to him, gingerly. "Mind you wash it."

"Makes no–"

"–difference to you, yes, I got that; you _are_ rather a chap of one idea, aren't you?"

"Brother Fuliginous – he knowed her recently." They pointed back towards the stairs. "He's here, by the tea seller's booth."

Aziraphale thanked him and got Sandalphon's attention, telling him what he'd learned.

" _That_ useless dolt?" sighed Sandalphon. "Brother Fuliginous was one of the friars meant to guard the key to Islington's prison. He won't be any use to us – from what I've gathered, the Lady Door is not present tonight. But I've found us our guide." He gestured to a man standing behind him Aziraphale had assumed was just another browsing shopper. "This is the Lord Rat-speaker."

He _did_ wish Sandalphon could have told him this _before_ he parted with his soiled handkerchief; it was getting so hard to find places willing to monogram them these days.

Swallowing his frustration, he studied their guide, who appeared to be a stoop-backed, bushy-bearded chap evidently very fond of mismatched furs, as he was wearing a number of them unevenly about his personage.

"Pleased to meet you," Aziraphale said, though he wasn't particularly.

"The rats say you aren't spies – that you're angels – but not like Islington."

"No," Aziraphale agreed, rather sadly. "I suppose we aren't very like him at all."

"He'll take us below tonight," Sandalphon told him airily.

"But... What about the rest of the market? Lady Door _may_ turn up." He hadn't even been to the old book stall he'd seen set up at Paul Hamlyn yet, and here Sandalphon was ready to leave just like _that_. "We might–"

"And God _might_ change the colour of the night sky for no fathomable reason – we can't stand around waiting for _mights_ , Aziraphale. You are extraordinarily passive." He shot him a nasty sneer. "No wonder you never accomplished anything."

* * *

The lid of a manhole scraped upwards against the cobblestone and asphalt under Lord Rat-speaker's hands as he pulled it out of its place.

Aziraphale had never been claustrophobic before, nor _much_ of a star-gazer (that was more _Crowley's_ fascination than his), but suddenly faced with the knowledge that they'd be down there for who knew how long, and that there would be no visible sky, he found he couldn't stop staring upwards until the last possible second.

Sandalphon shifted his bulk onto an iron ladder and began going downwards, and Aziraphale was obliged to follow.

The angel glanced back, once last time, over his shoulder – at the world and sky above – and then – hurrying up, for fear Sandalphon would get impatient and turn him into salt or something – he descended.


	4. Part 4 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **4** of **7**

Crowley was spraying his plants when the buzzer went off. Setting the mister down, he stormed past the lounge – where Gabriel was unironically watching reruns of _Marvin's Hour of Power_ – on his way to the door.

"You can't answer the door?" the demon snarled over his shoulder.

"Not my department – it's your place, _you're_ in control," sighed Gabriel, glancing up, his violet eyes wide with faux-innocence. "This is _your_ hell, I'm just living in it. Or am I missing something here?"

" _No_ ," he huffed. "That's perfectly right." To the door, he added, " _Yeah_? Who's there and what d'you want?"

"A word with an old friend," said a whispery yet clear voice from the other side – it was a voice Crowley had not heard for many thousands of years, not since before he became a demon. "No more, no less."

Gabriel went white and switched off the television. Slowly, he began to rise from his place.

"This really isn't a good time," Crowley told the door.

"I understand – I'll return tomorrow, if that's more convenient."

"That's _not_ what–" he began, but the angel on the other side of the door was gone before Crowley could even undo the security chain.

"What the hell," snapped Gabriel, "did you send him away for? He was _here_ – _Islington_ – all of Heaven is searching for him – and you just _sent him away_!"

"I didn't send him away!" hissed the demon. "He _left_ , all on his own. What was I meant to do, let him come in and see _you_ here? Besides, if you're that damn upset about it, he said he'll be back. No harm done, amirite?"

"Your incompetence never ceases to amaze me, Crowley," sighed Gabriel, reaching up to rub his temples. " _But_ at least we know it's in London now. Sometime since Lady Door released him, wherever it was she let him out, he's made his way back to the world of men."

"Which means we don't need her – we can get Aziraphale back."

"Heaven will still want to interview the opener; she's not an enemy, but she remains a person of interest."

"But finding her no longer matters enough to put Aziraphale at risk. You can send word to Sandalphon that they can call the whole thing off."

"You think I have a way to contact Sandalphon – in _London Below_ – from _here_?" Gabriel scoffed.

Crowley's gaze darkened. "You _don't_?"

"Of course not!"

"So Aziraphale is stranded in London Below until he finds someone who's little more than a footnote in the bigger picture at this point, believing that if he doesn't the universe will literally _implode_ , and we're stuck here – holding off Islington – until Heaven can make up its mind on how to take him in?"

"If I contacted Michael, let her know Islington is in London Above, that he came to see _you_..." he mused, more to himself than Crowley. "We could set up a trap for his return tomorrow."

"What I don't understand is how he found me." Crowley shook his head, trying to process the mess unfurling before them. "We haven't talked in eons – even if he wanted to find me, how would he know who I _am_ now? Did you ever tell him which demon...?"

"You think I talked to _Islington_ about you after you left Heaven? _Please_."

"He's getting information from _some_ one – either of Heaven or of Hell. D'you think they told him about Atlantis briefly rising up from the seabed at Adam Young's whim before Armageddon was supposed to start?"

"I don't _know_ ," Gabriel snapped, voice cracking slightly. "Why does everyone seem to think this was even my problem to begin with? _I_ wasn't in charge of Islington's punishment; it was never my _job_ to watch him or learn what he was doing below – I only passed the sentence. We outsourced the rest."

"And how did that work out for you?" He granted the archangel a rare, cool blink.

"You always acted like Islington _mattered_. When, in reality, he was just an underling who caused more trouble than he was worth. But God forbid we ever did anything to stop him back when we had the chance. Before the earth was created, before he sank Atlantis – long before the rebellion." He pointed a finger at the demon accusingly. "No, you were always forgiving him, always overlooking his fights with Lucifer and numerous other angels. He sure liked it when _you_ were slated to preside as judge over him, knew he'd barely get a telling off."

With the reflexes of a snake, Crowley pinned Gabriel to the door-frame with the side of his arm and hissed, "If I have to be remembered for _anything_ from back then, any of my old screw ups, I don't regret it was having a little mercy." He stared him down. "Something the rest of you completely lack. And," he added, through gritted teeth, "of the five of us, _I'm_ supposed to be the one who went bad. Even you can't ignore the irony in that."

" _Don't_ touch me!" Gabriel shoved him away, freeing himself and straightening his scarf. "If you ever touch me again, one way or another, I _will_ make you pay for it."

"What are you going to do? _Destroy_ me? We both know you can't."

"You know what your problem is?" Gabriel demanded rhetorically. "You always bet on the wrong pony – Islington, Lucifer, both were world-class losers. Now you're all about Aziraphale. You think your pet principality is going to turn out any better than the other two morons?"

Crowley didn't say a word, though his eyes were still darkened considerably and he looked like a snake about to strike. He unbolted the door and began walking out of the flat.

"Where are you going?" Gabriel called after the demon as his feet stomped down the dark hallway.

_Away._

That's where he was going.

_Away._

Away, so he didn't lose it and discorporate Gabriel, dispatching him right back to Heaven in a weak and bodiless state, making Islington's task that much easier, which was what he knew he'd be liable to do if he remained in the archangel's presence for one more agonising moment.

Gabriel was _begging_ for discorporation, after what he'd just said.

You could only expect a demon to resist so _much_ – it wasn't like their lot was known for resisting temptation.

Crowley had decided, in that moment, he'd go somewhere, anywhere, to clear his head, and come back when he could trust himself not to do anything he'd later regret.

It started raining, and Crowley didn't have an umbrella with him, but he didn't turn around and go back to the flat for one, he just kept trudging through the streets, getting soaked through, until he came to a pub.

Entering _The Market Tavern_ , he shook the excess dripping water off his back, then ordered a drink and sat down on a leather-upholstered stool.

A soft voice said, " _Raphael_? Or, I'm sorry... _Crawly_...is it now?"

He lifted his sunglasses, the lenses of which had fogged in the rain, to see Islington, wearing a bizarrely insubstantial grey suit that was fitted yet somehow still flowing, looking down at him with a polite expression.

"It's _Crow_ ley."

"Ah. I'm sorry. My information has come in fractions and much of it is horribly outdated." Eyebrows raised, the angel gestured at the stool across from him. "May I?"

"Suit yourself."

He did, and sat. "It's fortunate I spotted you coming in here. I was rather apprehensive about returning to your building tomorrow, despite my desire to see you."

"Why's that?"

"Well," he said softly, "do feel free to correct me if I'm mistaken, but I suspect you have a mutual acquaintance of ours sequestered there – one I've been rather put out with as of late – and I'd be walking into a trap."

Islington always had been like that – saying things without really saying them. Accusing without accusing. The unnerving thing was – for _now_ at least – his lack of malice was genuine.

It was obvious he meant Crowley no harm, as long as he did not interfere – as he feared he would soon have to – in his plans.

And when he did, when he inevitably had to keep protecting Gabriel – for the world's sake, for Aziraphale's sake – things would turn ugly. Those gentle eyes would burn, that barely-opening mouth would becoming a raging hole as it shouted threats.

Islington shouldn't have been a threat to a demon who'd once been an archangel, but Crowley knew all too well the power mere determination could give a being; he wouldn't underestimate this angel, not like the others did.

He decided to change the subject, to avoid saying anything about Gabriel's possible location for as long as possible. "I heard you killed an entire family."

Islington stared. "I didn't kill them – I _had_ them killed."

Crowley put his sunglasses back on; they made him feel less vulnerable, put space between Islington's sparkling angel eyes and his own demonic ones. "Well, it's still not what you'd call good conduct for an _angel_."

"Why should you care about that? Aren't you a demon now?"

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I approve of murdering children."

"I told you, I _didn't_ – besides, both girls are still alive. That ought to count for something. The others...the parents and the boy...it was just one of those things...surely you understand..." The angel placed a soft hand over Crowley's. "Please, Crowley. I'm not your enemy."

He groaned. " _Islington_..."

"I heard Lucifer doesn't want you any longer – just because you stopped one little apocalypse." He squeezed, very gently. "If it had been me, I wouldn't have exiled you for something so trivial." Islington shook its head. "He's an idiot, always has been. Doesn't know what he's damn well got, does he?"

Inhaling deeply, Crowley slipped his hand out from under Islington's. "I can't help you any more."

"Serve me." The angel gazed intently at his face, cocking his head imploringly to the side. "You served him, and he didn't care a thing for you."

"Thing _is_ , Islington," he replied, coolly, "I'm on my own side now."

"Equals, then." He smiled haltingly, a hit of hope dancing around the corners of his mouth. "We'll work together. Gabriel was never exactly _kind_ to you. If he were to be...removed from the picture... _We_ could rule Heaven. I'd let you have first pick of anything you wanted."

"D'you really think God would let you bump off the chief archangel? What's the Almighty going to say?" He chuckled darkly. "'Oh, whoops, _he's_ out, so just grab a crown and start telling everybody what to do'?"

"Nothing is _given_ , Crowley – we must simply take and see to it things go our way. That is how one acquires what is deserved, what has been awaited." His smile remained impossibly sweet, soft as lambswool; no matter what came out of his mouth, the rest of his face did not change. "If you wish to discuss the matter further, in private, you and I might adjourn upstairs – to the Chesterfield Room – and make our plans to acquire our due rewards over several bottles of good wine. No one would interrupt us."

Letting it finish, Crowley paused meaningfully. "You would have made a good demon."

And he _meant_ it, too.

Islington, under his inoffensive voice and behind his guileless facial expressions, was the singularly most unabashedly _evil_ spiritual being Crowley had been in the presence of since he'd destroyed Ligur.

Besides Hastur, Crowley couldn't think of another currently living being of angelic origin whose gleeful blasé demeanour was almost _human_ in its sociopathy.

Islington was far, far gone. He was mad, and he was sick.

Hell would have loved him. Provided it could contain him. Which, base beginnings or not, Crowley highly doubted.

This was not an ambiguous creature doing an unpopular job who was pleading with him; this was somebody who _craved_ , wanted until the want ate away at their innards. And Islington had had a lot of time to feed upon his own petty yearnings with, no doubt, little incentive not to dwell upon such thoughts.

This was what happened when a mind had nothing to fill itself with; it went rotten.

Once there might have been two Islingtons inside this angel's mind. Two angels in one, at war with each other. One of them might have been the angel Crowley thought he remembered – the one he'd admired as Raphael. _That_ angel wasn't there any more. The other had won dominion over Islington's mind a long, long time ago and banished the likes of his good twin for ever.

"Not for me the throngs of an idiot's rebel army," Islington declared. "When I raise my hand against those who have wronged me, I won't be put under a leaky pipe, filing souls of the damned. Hosannas will be sung in my name as I am raised on high. My throne will be of gold," he went on, his voice slipping into a murmur that was no longer for Crowley's benefit. "Of pure, _pure_ gold among the clouds."

Back during the Armageddon that wasn't, there had been a moment – a terror-filled moment – for Crowley when Adam Young had looked at him and the demon sensed the Antichrist _knew_ him.

In one glance, that boy had known his history, everything he had ever done. He had even known what Aziraphale had not prior to this whole debacle concerning protecting Gabriel from Islington's wrath: he had known that Crowley was once Raphael.

If Adam had been the boy he helped raise – if he'd been _Warlock_ – Crowley might not have been _quite_ so overcome by terror; one could expect a little compassion towards someone who was like a godfather to you, towards someone who had – for all their faults – sung you lullabies and cleaned up after you when you were sick all over your bedroom floor.

But Adam was Adam – someone with no real ties to Crowley. He'd been a boy who had no imaginable reason not to recreate a new world where Raphael had never existed, let alone sauntered vaguely downwards.

The feelings that had enveloped Crowley before he realised Adam was not going to do it...that overwhelming inner fear... He felt a bit like that _now_.

If Islington had been the devil – if this was _Satan_ sweetly cajoling him in a pub – maybe he wouldn't have felt unfathomable dread knotting in his stomach.

But Islington had become something else – not devil nor angel, whatever he called himself – he was a being with no name. And there are precious few wild creatures more unpredictable than something savage which does not know its own true name.

When he'd dropped Aziraphale off at Trafalgar Square, Crowley had been frightened _for_ Islington, afraid of what Heaven would do to him (which was why he'd been keen to make sure Aziraphale understood from the get-go how their mission would likely end); now he was more than a little afraid _of_ him.

Crowley did not show this fear. It was not his way. Being afraid did not – could never, not if he wanted to keep living – make him _act_ afraid.

There had been times, though not to this extent, when he was afraid of Hastur, and Hastur – who'd rolled his eyes at his flamboyant behaviour and called him a flash bastard – had never known it.

What he needed to do, he was well aware, was play it cool. Not exactly let Islington think he would join him – that would be suicide, as both sides could call him traitor for that and start the fragmented, universe-ending war they were trying to avoid.

So, no, not that, but...just sort of... _talk_...to him...

There had been a time when he could talk openly to Islington, a time when Islington trusted him.

He feverishly hoped that time was not yet over.

"So, plans to take over Heaven aside," he said causally, with a cocky serpentine smile, "how've you been?"

The angel across from him blinked impassively.

He kept going, doggedly. "Have a rough time getting out of London Below? Where _did_ you end up?"

"Really now, Crowley." Islington tsked, shaking his head in disappointment. "I'm not Lucifer." His eyes darted from the top of the demon's head to his hands currently under the table to prevent its grabbing them again. So he reached out with his feather-soft hand and touched the side of Crowley's face instead. "I like you a lot, surely you must know that, but your charm doesn't work on me when I don't _want_ it to."

Well, thought Crowley, struggling not to flinch, that's it; the universe is fu–

Somebody screamed, " _Fire_!" and the despairing demon stopped mid-thought to glance over his shoulder at a bar glowing like an inferno to his left.

When somebody put out whatever caught fire and curls of smoke trailed up pathetically from behind the register, Crowley – suddenly very aware he was no longer feeling a hand touching his face – turned back to where Islington had been sitting.

It was gone; there was nothing to indicate the angel's former presence besides a slowly-rising dent in the leather on the stool across from Crowley.

* * *

Door was running.

Running as fast as she could – running like hell.

Running like hell, quite ironically, to escape the two angels who were of Heaven.

The one with the nicer face had a flaming sword, and he'd been calling after her – by name – from the start. The other one – the one whose face was not so nice, who reminded her not so much of Islington as he did Croup and Vandemar – had merely shouted several nasal commands in her direction as she fled and then seemed rather put out that she hadn't immediately obeyed him.

Something under her feet splashed. She stumbled, slightly, over a wet, uneven ground and pressed her hands against exposed brick.

They were getting closer.

"Temple and arch!" Concentrating, she prepared to _open_.

But the nicer-faced angel did something so utterly unexpected it distracted her.

The other angel had just declared, as if it were all his companion's fault, as if Door did not have legs and a will of her own, "She's made it to the wall – she's going to open a door – we're going to _lose_ her!"

The nice one, giving her up as lost, let out a whisper (or what _would_ have been a whisper if London Below did not echo so) of, "Oh, _Crowley_ ," to himself.

 _That_ was what was so unexpected.

It was the angel's tenderness, expressing fear of failing somebody he loved – the same tone she'd have used for her father when he was alive, or her mother or brother; the same voice she'd use if she ever found her baby sister, the one Islington claimed was not dead; perhaps even the voice she'd use if Richard ever returned to London Below – which made her hesitate.

Islington had had a soft voice, as well. But this was a _different_ kind of soft.

It fascinated her that a being could look both imposing as anything, holding a fiery sword aloft and chasing her relentlessly, yet could _sound_ like _that_.

She could not run from – could not abandon to despair – anyone who sounded like that.

Or, rather, she could have done.

Certainly she _could_ have.

But she didn't.

* * *

Crowley didn't tell Gabriel about meeting with Islington. He barely acknowledged the archangel as he returned, shivering, to the flat and made his way into the bathroom, where he decided to let the tub fill up while he leaned against the sink with his eyes closed.

He didn't know what he was going to _do_.

Islington – gone madder than he'd ever imagined – was far too dangerous, far too _evil_ , to be left alone, and he'd already committed to helping Gabriel, even if he _was_ a complete prick, and yet...

And yet...

He took off his sunglasses and balanced them against the side of the bidet, still not bothering to open his eyes.

In the lounge, Gabriel was playing something high and tinny, which annoyed Crowley in his fragile, anxious state. Being a snake, he preferred heavy base (the vibrations felt good, _welcoming_ ) to whatever off-putting nonsense _that_ was. He wondered how Gabriel had even gotten the stereo to work in the first place – it didn't have speakers, because he'd forgotten to buy them; this was a fact he himself hadn't been aware of until Aziraphale happened to point it out to him.

Drawing in a deep breath and then letting it out, Crowley opened his eyes, turned around, and glanced down at the bathtub.

It was filled with blood.

Oh, _right_.

He hadn't known if Gabriel would use the tub or the shower and had performed his little demonic miracle on _both_.

And then he'd promptly forgotten to undo it.

Well, _shit_ , he thought.


	5. Part 5 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **5** of **7**

Richard Mayhew, whose eyes were glassy and hair was rumpled although he wasn't drunk, glanced over at the wages clerk he'd shared a desk with ever since they'd promoted Gary.

Of course, he'd have had his _own_ desk, except that Gary's replacement somehow blew up a computer and fried the whole tabletop, and the fire department had had to come in with hoses and foam, and now it was part of Richard's job to print out the information from the database so that Gary's replacement could do the sums on paper.

He didn't actually mind; he rather liked Newton Pulsifer. Newt was the closest thing to a person from London Below – a lost, unseen person – Richard thought he'd ever know again.

"Have you ever got everything you ever wanted?" he asked Newt, glancing up from work he wasn't actually doing. "And then realised it wasn't what you wanted at all?"

" _Yes_!" cried Newt, his pencil hovering above the paper. Then he registered second question and added, with a little – somewhat confused – frown, "Wait, that is, I mean, no. Not the last part. So I guess... _no_... I haven't. Not really." He set the pencil down and stared at Richard. "Sorry. What was the question again?"

He repeated it.

Newt replied, rather awkwardly, that, indeed, he _had_ gotten everything he ever wanted, was a happily married man, didn't even mind the commute to work from Tadfield to London (he was just glad to even _have_ a job again, especially now that there could be no more weekday afternoons with Sergeant Shadwell).

"Except, apart from not being fired," Newt mused, "I don't suppose I knew I wanted any of what I've got now – so it couldn't be everything I ever wanted...not if I didn't actually _know_ I wanted it... Could it?"

Richard chuckled, shaking his head. "I suppose not."

"Why do you ask?"

He ran his index finger through the Day-Glo hair of a troll doll. "Sometimes I wish I'd never come back."

Newt, being one of those rare persons who did not look at Richard as if he ought to be committed or – at the very least – have his temperature taken and perhaps an hour's lie-down when he made remarks like this, simply asked, "From where?"

"London Below."

Newt didn't know what that meant – though it sounded rather self-explanatory, he supposed. "I thought maybe you were going to say Scotland."

"The accent?"

"Yeah." He shifted uncomfortably, slightly afraid he'd insulted his desk-mate. "I couldn't help noticing it."

"No, I don't miss it _there_ – not really. But below...sometimes... I wanted _this_ life back...so badly...I didn't think about what it meant giving up." He paused, sadly. "And she warned me."

" _She_?" echoed Newt. "Someone special to you?"

"Not in the way you're thinking," Richard said. There hadn't exactly been _time_ for that...and back then he'd still been sore over Jessica, though for the life of him he couldn't remember _why_. "But yes," he whispered. "She was very special."

"What was her name? I mean, if it's not a personal question."

"Door."

"Is that short for something? Like Doreen?"

"No, it was just Door."

Newt's brow furrowed. "What sort of name is that?"

Richard smiled. "Her name." And he wondered, as he began to consider the vague possibility of actually getting some work done today, what she was doing right then.

* * *

What she was doing right then was trying to persuade two angels that she could not come with them to London Above at a moment's notice.

She would have to tell somebody where she was going, for a start.

After all, given what happened with Islington recently, and the murder of her father (who'd had some very unique ideas about how the way things were done in London Below ought to be changed), she was a person of interest to many groups besides those who moved in Heavenly circles.

The stout angels who called themselves Sandalphon and Aziraphale would have to get in line, as far as persons who wanted a word with her – or several – went.

She wasn't in any immediate danger from the metaphorical queue, not just now, but she wasn't keen on stirring up the waters, getting their attentions by leaving London Below with two angels.

"But my dear young lady," protested the one called Aziraphale, spreading his – surprisingly beautiful – hands imploringly. "You don't understand the pressure we're under right now – we don't know where Islington is. And if we don't find him quickly there could be a war unlike anything this universe has ever known. I think you can agree with me that that's not something any responsible person would _permit_."

"I didn't know the angel Islington well." She pushed an auburn curl over her shoulder and stared at them steadily. "I'm not sure what I can tell you – or any other angel – that you don't already know."

"You could tell us," growled the one called Sandalphon, "where in blazes you _sent_ him – where that door you opened for it _let out_."

She flinched. Behind her, the brick walls dripped ominously with sludge and condensation. "I don't know. Far away. A long way away."

Sandalphon's face turned purple; Aziraphale shushed him before he could start screaming furiously not so much _at_ Door as in her general direction.

"You haven't any idea," Aziraphale said, for the sake of saying something, "where it let out – at _all_?"

"I'm afraid not," she told him. "There isn't much I can do for you, as far as I can tell. I could send word to the Black Friars–"

Sandalphon let out a strangled snort.

"–or perhaps the Marquis de Carabas; he witnessed me opening the door for Islington, if you need to confirm what I say."

Aziraphale leaned closer to Sandalphon, though Door thought the movement a trifle apprehensive (to say the pair were obviously not close, not particular friends, would be like saying the planet Jupiter was bigger than a duck). "Would it be better than nothing?" he whispered urgently. "I mean, _two_ confirmed stories about the last time Islington was seen? That's got to count for something."

"We didn't come all the way down here, misplace a guide, and chase an opener through the sewers of London for confirmation of a _story_ , Aziraphale!"

"It's the best I can do, I'm afraid," Door said firmly, though she let a tremor of pity lace her tone this time. "I don't want trouble with Islington any more than either of you – but he wanted to go to Heaven straightaway. He was sick. He'd been down here, locked away, too long. He threatened my friends." She blinked at Aziraphale, and made a brief wrist motion as if she was about to take his hand in hers but then didn't. "What choice did I _have_?"

"You aren't the only one with friends," snapped Sandalphon, looking vulnerable, though only for a fleeting second before his face hardened again.

* * *

With his hands linked behind his back, Gabriel was looking out the window; the sun was peeking through the tall window, as the rain had finally let up a bit.

This lightening occurred just in time for dusk to begin in earnest, and the archangel could see more of the room reflected behind him than he could of the street and cars below.

He saw himself – pale and exhausted, his pastel suit a great deal more rumpled than it had been when he left Heaven – standing in front of a white-and-grey wall surrounded by gaudy spotlights and neon tubes.

Behind him, a sketchy Mona Lisa smirked like she was aware of some tantalizing secret he was not party to. Also behind him, a demon in dark glasses who used to be an archangel like himself, long ago, materialized from the unlit rooms beyond the window's reach.

Gabriel did not turn around, but he did speak. "Michael will be here early tomorrow."

"I don't think Islington's coming back," Crowley told him. "Not to the flat. He's not stupid enough to waltz into a trap with his hands up."

Gabriel didn't ask if Islington had spoken with Crowley during his absence earlier, though he suspected such a conversation more than likely took place. "Whatever Islington offered you," he said, after a terse pause, "don't take it. It's not worth the universe."

"You really think I don't _know_ that?"

Gabriel shook his head. "Raphael, _please_." He finally turned. "I don't want it to end like this."

The demon smacked his lips together. "D'you mean in a demon's flat in Mayfair, or just this situation in general?"

"Both." He regarded Crowley with a look that wasn't as cold and aloof as the previous ones he'd condescended to grant him. "I need to know you aren't going to step out of the way and let Islington destroy me if it comes down to a choice."

"It's a different proposition now – I can't betray _you_ without betraying _everything_."

"If something _does_ happen to me," Gabriel said, as if it galled him but he had to make the forthcoming request irregardless, "will you tell the others I'm sorry I failed them? And that none of this was their fault?"

"What others?" said Crowley, clearly a little puzzled.

"The other archangels."

"Right." He turned his head away, adjusting the bridge of his dark glasses. "Yeah, I'll tell them."

"Thanks." Gabriel let his hands drop to his sides and turned to the window again as, outside, the street lights were coming on, turning the world beyond Crowley's flat into a succession of golden puddles.

A widening gold smudge spread across Mona Lisa's reflected face, blurring her cocky smile.

* * *

Before the Lady Door opened the way for them to return to London Above, she took them – as she promised – to see the Marquis.

Sandalphon had been in favour of using the hilt of Aziraphale's flaming sword to knock Door unconscious so they could _drag_ her to London Above; but Aziraphale refused to play any part in the unnecessary kidnapping of an innocent girl; and – archangel or not – the lady was still an opener, she could open some central, crucial part of his body with little more than a thought and discorporate him, and then where would Sandalphon be?

"You can't help Gabriel," Aziraphale had pointed out, "if you're dispatched to Heaven without a body."

This was especially true as the principality knew Sandalphon wasn't innovative enough to do what _he'd_ done in a similar predicament – he wouldn't possess a human. Wouldn't even attempt to search for a receptive body. Not so much for any moral reason, more that it simply wouldn't _occur_ to Sandalphon to try any such thing.

Grunting, Sandalphon had had to concede, though the resentment that burned in his eyes was directed more than a little at Aziraphale on a personal level. He was already thinking how much he'd like to make him pay for this someday.

Aziraphale thought that if Gabriel wasn't in danger, if all had been well enough in Heaven, Sandalphon might have punched him right then and there.

The Marquis de Carabas was evidently attending some manner of party, which Door discreetly crashed, entering through her self-created passageway in a wall at the back with the two – slightly panting – angels in tow.

As the familiar, if somewhat squeaky, strands of music being played on violins and flutes reached Aziraphale's ear, he brightened. "Is that...? No, it couldn't be."

Door smiled, her opal eyes warm. "The gavotte."

"It's been out of style for ages!" he exclaimed, scanning the party for any sign of dancers.

She shook her head. "Not down here."

Meanwhile, Sandalphon made a face at their chipper exchange and attempted to shoo a rat off a half-rotted barrel to his left.

The rat began telling him off in a series of angry chitters.

"How remarkable!" said Aziraphale, utterly delighted by this unexpected turn of events.

"The Marquis is stationed on the other side of the room." Door gingerly lifted a hand. "There are better ways than _walking_ to cross it – would you do me the honour, angel?"

Aziraphale was momentarily dumbstruck by three facts which made him feel both exceedingly happy and inexpressibly lonesome. One, Lady Door had dark red hair; two, Lady Door had highly unusual eyes; and three, she'd just called him 'angel' with a friendly, affectionate lilt to her voice.

In Aziraphale's mind, these were three very good things, even if they collectively made him miss a certain demon so terribly it hurt.

His manners came back to him in a rush; he took her hand. "Certainly, young lady." Turning at the waist, he placed his sheathed flaming sword on edge of the barrel. "Watch this for me, would you? There's a good chap."

Arms folded across his chest, Sandalphon snapped that he wasn't Aziraphale's manservant and the principality could keep track of his _own_ belongings.

"Oh, no, Sandalphon, you've quite mistaken me," he amended hastily, a single pale eyebrow raised. "I was addressing the rat."

The rat sat up a bit straighter, looking very proud, raising his paw in what almost looked like a salute.

Door giggled appreciatively as her angelic partner escorted her into the crowd of merrymakers.

* * *

Crowley did not dream. Demons _didn't_ , usually. _Angels_ might, except their dreams were usually more like interpretational visions than imagined slumbering scenarios, and they slept too infrequently for it to matter. Crowley had never slept when he was an archangel – when he was Raphael – and so was largely unaware of any possible celestial losses in that area following his downwards saunter.

What _did_ happen when Crowley slept – which he put down to his overactive imagination, though it likely had little to do with that and in actuality seemed more akin to typical demonic paranoia, just another part of the job description – was sometimes amid the welcoming blackness of oblivion sleep brought him, in that bizarre corporal plane between asleep and awake, he felt things that weren't there.

Sometimes he woke certain that a houseplant had grown a vine of several feet and made its way into the bedroom and was rattling the window.

More than once he'd awakened unnerved by the conviction he wasn't alone in his bed; he'd felt a give in the mattress, the folding of somebody else's bones against his own.

This was one reason he enjoyed long naps – the longer his slumber, usually the less intense that confusing moment before waking was. He hadn't had any sensation even of time having gone by when he woke up from sleeping for a century. Shorter sleeping hours seemed to mess with him far more.

On this night, Crowley came to himself in a state comparable to that of a deep-sea diver who has risen to the surface too quickly; he thought, inexplicably, Aziraphale had returned and was standing beside his bed, lifting up the coverlet from over his head.

He opened his eyes, not frightened so much as momentarily _thrilled_ , until he saw a pair of luminous grey irises staring back in the darkness.

These grey eyes showed mild surprise but no anger or alarm.

It wasn't Aziraphale returned from London Below standing there; it was Islington, and there was a crystal jar in his raised hand from the middle of which a tiny but unmistakably _Hellish_ flame flickered.

"Oh." The angel's voice was level, polite. "Hello again, Crowley. It would appear I have come into the wrong room."


	6. Part 6 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **6** of **7**

Islington actually _smiled_ down at Crowley.

It was the kind of smile somebody anticipating a monster – a dragon long grown fat on meat and gold they meant to slay, to rid the world of – might smile at the unexpected appearance of a delightful kitten in its place.

"An unfortunate mistake," it said, "coming into your bedroom instead of Gabriel's. Do feel free to resume your rest. I'll see myself out when I'm quite finished."

Crowley was a shadow – half-changed into his serpent form for the sake of speed – gliding across the room and planting himself, in his favourite shape again, before Islington, blocking the angel's way.

"You're standing in my way." He spoke as if there were some chance Crowley was not wholly aware of that fact.

Crowley spoke through his teeth. "I think you and I both know I can't let you do this."

Brow furrowed, Islington looked down at the jar in his hand, at its contents which glowed and sizzled, then back at Crowley's unmoved expression. He was puzzled by this resistance, though not troubled by it. It made no sense to him. Why all this fuss about standing in his path and glaring? How long until he could slake his thirst for vengeance? How long until he could destroy Gabriel? There was no part of his demented mind that registered how this desired action could not be put into practice.

No part of him truly considered the possibility Crowley – dear old Raphael from the olden days, the only _reasonable_ archangel – would _stop_ him.

"Why-ever not?"

"If you destroy him, it'll start a war."

Islington considered this. "That won't matter, not if I _win_ it."

"Factions of angels and demons tearing each other to pieces – the oceans turning into seafood gumbo while stars implode under the pressure of uncontrolled angelic and demonic energy..." Crowley pressed. "That doesn't _worry_ you?"

"Should it?" The angel blinked.

"Damn lot, I'd say."

" _Interesting_." Islington tried to move around him, sighing when Crowley blocked his every turn. "You're still in my way."

"You can't just do whatever you _want_ , Islington – things up here don't work that way."

"And what is it _you_ want?" it asked, almost as if it cared. "What are you doing this for? If it's not Lucifer's forgiveness, and it's not to join me, and it's certainly not for some manner of divine forgiveness through keeping Gabriel in existence – then _what_?"

* * *

"So we are all in agreement," said the Marquis de Carabas, with an exaggerated flick of his wrist. "I go with you–" he motioned, as an extension of the flicking gesture, at Sandalphon and Aziraphale, "and I testify to what I saw when Lady Door released the angel Islington." His eyes narrowed as he glanced over his shoulder at Door, who looked pale in a blue dress under a leather jacket. "You will, of course, owe me another very big favour – and you've scarcely rid yourself of the last one owed to me. Are you certain you wish me to take your place with them? A few questions is hardly a reason to waste a favour."

"This is not a good time for me to be in London Above," she insisted. "This is how it must be." And she looked from the Marquis to Aziraphale, as if she were more than a little sorry to be parting from him after their friendly exchanges and pleasurable gavotte. "I do hope Heaven can find Islington before anything goes further awry."

With a little ironic frown, de Carabas chuckled, "Better that you hope you sent him far enough away it never matters if they find him or not."

"You could always reopen a door to wherever it was – for an angel to go _after_ Islington," Sandalphon said suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

"I couldn't," she snapped, appalled by the suggestion, and by the fact that Sandalphon's eyes had shifted for a moment towards Aziraphale, as if he already knew _which_ angel he wanted to send on an obvious suicide mission and would be only too glad to be rid of him. "And I wouldn't."

Aziraphale hadn't noticed the look on Sandalphon's face, hadn't seen how it was directed at himself, but he quite agreed with Door irregardless. "There would be no guarantee it would be the same place – not if she didn't know what she opened the first time." He gripped his flaming sword. "Hardly worth the effort."

"Still," said Sandalphon, "something to ask Gabriel about – he might think it a good idea."

"Whether he thinks it's a good idea or not, I won't be with you," Door reminded him. "And the Marquis is not an opener." She put her hand to the brick wall – behind which the party they'd left after getting the attention of de Carabas and retrieving Aziraphale's sword from the amiable rat was still in full swing – and inhaled. "This is the last door I open for you."

"And if we need to find you again?" simpered Sandalphon, nasally.

"You _don't_." She noticed Aziraphale's crestfallen expression at her harsh tone and said it again, this time to _him_ , gentler. "You don't. I've told you both everything I know. It was a pleasure meeting you, angel, please believe me."

"A mutual pleasure, young lady." A pause. "Er..." The angel cleared his throat, reassuming with forced cheerfulness, "If you ever need to find _me_ , however, I _do_ run a bookshop in Soho." And he pulled a business card – the first he'd ever willingly distributed because he _wanted_ a customer to visit him during opening hours – from his vest pocket and gave it to her.

She did not say she would not go there – it was not part of her world, too far from _her_ London, London Below – she was aware he already knew that and let him pretend; she was of the mind that it might give him a moment's peace in their parting, if nothing more substantial.

"No need to drag this out," Sandalphon said next, callously. "The sooner we're back, the better."

"While I don't appreciate being hurried along like a tardy school-boy," sighed de Carabas, "I'm inclined to agree – best to get this over with." He looked at Door. "Open it."

She pressed her hand to the brick, closed her eyes, concentrated. The wall fell in under her palm. The world beyond it was not the party they'd left, nor anywhere else in London Below. It was a dark, open space in a very different sort of indoors than the sewers they'd been travelling through.

Aziraphale recognised the smell at once; it was Crowley's bedroom, Crowley's closet; Crowley's only _real_ suit, the one with the tartan collar.

Door hugged him goodbye, and she turned to go, staying within range only in order to close the door again behind them once they'd all gone.

Sandalphon, to Aziraphale's complete astonishment, allowed both himself and the Marquis to go first. "I won't be a moment. Go on."

There was a little scream, indignant, appalled. "Unhand me!"

Too late – far too late to stop it – Aziraphale understood what was happening.

Lady Door was behind forcibly dragged through to London Above by Sandalphon as the opening closed.

She would have discorporated him in her terror, and she nearly did, reaching with her free hand for his chest, her mind still thinking only one word: _open._

Except she saw it – she was the first of them to see it – and she forgot about Sandalphon the way somebody about to smack the nose of a small but mean dog who has been nipping at them would forget the errant canine in light of a wolf with blood on its muzzle turning up.

Islington, holding a crystal jar with a flame inside it.

She wrenched her hand free – it took very little effort as Sandalphon was already letting go.

* * *

"...it's certainly not for some manner of divine forgiveness through keeping Gabriel in existence – then _what_?"

There was a commotion behind them; Crowley's bedroom was suddenly filled with people, pouring out from behind the double-doors of his mirrored closet.

People the demon could see emerging perfectly well, despite the fact that there were no lights on and the only illumination in the room was Islington's jar.

But it was the _smell_ he noticed first. Before he allowed his gaze to drift to them – before he weighed the possible consequences of taking his eyes off Islington for even the shortest of moments, he knew what that smell was.

" _Aziraphale_!"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale took a step towards him, halting at the sight of Islington.

A girl behind Sandalphon – a girl with eyes the colour of fire opals – cried out, in a short, horrified breath, " _Islington_!" And she stepped closer to the tall, dark man, who inhaled sharply and muttered a curse word.

Then Aziraphale exclaimed, with notably less horror, almost _pleasure_ , "Islington!"

The angel looked at the principality. "So sorry, don't think me rude, but have we met?" Islington's eyes raked across the row of them. "These other three I know" (the brief expression he shot at the opal-eyed girl was a dark one, and his upper lip was curled in a passing sneer; he clearly _hated_ her) _"you_ I don't seem to remember."

Aziraphale appeared rather offended. "We shared a desk for nearly two hundred years, my good chap!"

Crowley shook his head warningly at his friend. Islington was nobody's good chap. He was nobody's good _anything_.

"I'm afraid it doesn't ring any bells," Islington said, turning his attention back to Crowley. "Now, you were about to answer my..." He stopped, glanced from Crowley to Aziraphale, and smiled very slowly. " _Oh_." The angel's hands pressed together with the jar between them. "This is about _him_ , isn't it? I couldn't figure out who it was you were missing – who you were trying to protect – I foolishly thought it might still be Lucifer, after all, despite his casting you off. But you've made a _new_ friend. How sweet." He whirled around to grin indolently at Aziraphale. "What was your name again?"

" _Aziraphale_." Aziraphale was indignant. "For pity's sake, Islington! You saw me _every day_ in Heaven; I was in the Ninth Choir."

"I don't think so," it said, politely dismissive. "Perhaps you've confused me with someone else." Then, to Crowley, "Forgive me, I hadn't realised. I wrongly assumed whoever you were doing this for was going to be a demon – I didn't expect you to have picked your dearest companion from among the angels." A thought seemed to flitter behind the angel's calculating grey eyes – it was the sort of shadow a moth makes passing by a porch light. "Is he...? He's not by any chance the one you stopped Armageddon with? Oh, my, my..."

It would have been better if Islington showed some sign of jealousy, perhaps, or annoyance mixed with disappointment – at least _those_ were emotions.

The little cogs and gears turning in its angelic head while Islington considered how best to use this newly-gleaned information was disturbing – you could practically hear things clicking speedily into place as the angel's mind was being made up.

" _Enough_!" snarled Sandalphon, pushing forward, his expression the most passionate one either Crowley or Aziraphale had ever seen on his usually passive-aggressive face, the most unabashedly anxious. "Where's Gabriel? Where's he gone? What have you done with him?"

" _Really_ , Crowley," Islington told the demon, ignoring Sandalphon, "if that's all you want – to be left alone with your new friend – you could have _asked_ me. It's as good as done. Step aside, let me get on with things here, and I promise you'll both be left alone to do whatever it is you like best."

"Don't trust him," blurted the opal girl.

"I seriously doubt he's that stupid," snorted her dark-skinned friend.

Aziraphale unsheathed his flaming sword.

The sword wasn't alight, not yet, though it glowed from within like it was studded with embers, but it was ready. Ready for whatever was about to take place when Crowley refused Islington and the politeness was replaced with white-hot rage.

There were more than _just_ cogs and gears in Islington's mind – there was also a spring, tightly coiled, and once it was sprung...oh, once it was _sprung_...

There was a weight on Crowley's chest – he was tempted, in spite of himself. He was thinking of how perfect everything had been before Gabriel came, of the puzzle still in the kitchen Aziraphale never got to finish, of the neatly-labeled home-movies in the lounge...

It wasn't a good feeling, this. He was used to be the tempter, not the tempted.

He had to push the word out, like it was stuck in his throat and he'd choke on it if he didn't dislodge it quickly. " _No_."

Islington blinked. "No?" Then his shoulders lifted in a little shrug. "Of course, I don't _have_ to leave him alone." He lightly shook the jar in his hand. "I could just as easily destroy him."

Sandalphon sniffed, his voice cracked, "Shows what _you_ know – Aziraphale happens to be immune to Hellfire."

Grimacing, Aziraphale leaned closer to Sandalphon and murmured, "Er... _About_ that..."

The archangel didn't catch on. "So your threat, Islington, is meaningless."

"Sandalphon," snarled Crowley, " _shut up_."

"Just let me pass," Islington insisted. "This way we both get what we want."

"Not if it means the end of the world – I don't want _that_."

Islington began to lift the lid of the jar – Sandalphon flinched back instinctively. Aziraphale looked like he was going to be sick, but he didn't draw away, he stepped forward with his sword held out defensively.

"Islington," said the principality, "you don't _want_ to do this."

The spring coiled tighter.

Aziraphale made a lightning-fast motion with this sword to keep Islington's hands holding the jar away from his personage, and the mad angel let out a sharp, wild cry when two gashes – two straight lines across the sides of its pale hands – beaded with blood then began to drip downwards.

Down its arms, down the slide of the jar, down into the carpet...

The spring was tripped.

"You fat bastard!" Wings unfurling, revealing feathers as grey as its eyes, Islington made a furious lunge for Aziraphale.

Crowley, lengthening into a serpent behind him, sprung out and began to coil himself tightly around Islington, squeezing.

The jar fell from its hands but luckily did not break, though the already lifted lid cracked and the flicker of Hellfire within grew a little taller, as if it were stretching in preparation for a near-imminent release.

The man who had been awkwardly comforting the opal girl righted it but did not hold onto it – Hellfire could not destroy a _man_ , not the way it could an _angel_ , but humans could still feel it burn.

The hell-heated crystal left red welts forming on the man's dark palm, and the opal girl yelped, "de Carabas!" when she saw them rising on his skin.

Sandalphon cowered, yet at the same time was trying to crawl away – possibly to find Gabriel before Islington did, which was, oddly enough, a different sort of bravery from the manner the rest of them were being forced to display in all this.

Crowley barely registered this, or what de Carabas was doing, however. He was too busy wrapping his long black self around a thrashing angel that was no longer all sweetness and promises of an eternity spent in happiness with his best friend; now he was threatening, in a choked off voice, to do worse to him than he would to Gabriel.

Islington got a hand free and – after a violent struggle – managed to yank Aziraphale's sword away from him, clutching the hilt while the principality clutched his twisted wrist.

It struck out with the weapon, brutally.

Crowley looped himself around Islington's wrist until he dropped the sword, and Aziraphale stumbled forward, regained balance, and – with surprising grace – reclaimed the sword and brandished it in a single, fluid motion as the embers ignited and it went up in flames.

Crowley held on tight. It was like trying to hold back a bloody _hurricane_. He wished Sandalphon would get off his hands and knees and help, but Sandalphon was gone, of course, he'd seen him going in his peripheral vision – and then he was back, with Gabriel, who had a sword of his own.

The three of them should have been able to overpower Islington, except that it concentrated its power into a quake that shook the bedroom, making them all fall, even Crowley – who was flung back onto the bed and crawled out from the sheets in a form somewhere between snake-like and man-shaped, fangs bared.

Islington was steady on his feet as he used this interval to reach the jar again. This time he opened it all the way, and it flared straight up, like a miniature pillar.

Aziraphale, still the nearest to Islington, recoiled, turning his face away, his free hand across his body, pressed to his side like he was hugging himself.

Gabriel realised what Sandalphon had been too dense to pick up on, despite its obviousness. "Aziraphale! You're not immune to–"

"No, I'm not!" snapped Aziraphale, over his shoulder at the archangel, irritably. "But with all due respect I hardly think that's our biggest concern just now."

Islington was being careful not to touch the fire himself – his hands clutched the bottom of the jar; they had perfect control.

"What _is_ he?" shrieked Sandalphon – horrified by this creature that had the same weakness as any other angel yet the casualty of a demon, this unfallen _thing_.

Floating up from Islington's pocket there came a box of matches, and silence enveloped the bedroom.

One match was held – with long, soft, careful fingers – to the flame rising from the jar. He smiled, holding onto it dangerously long, as if one second too late wouldn't have been the end of him, then he flung it in the direction of Gabriel, who flung himself aside in a panic.

A curtain caught fire instead of the archangel. The fabric blackened and crackled but didn't burn away; it just kept burning like it meant to burn forever and ever.

The opal girl – Lady Door, Crowley had worked out by deduction – wailed like a banshee, obviously pushed to her breaking point by all this.

Islington kept on grinning. He began to light another match.

The bedroom started growing smokey – de Carabas was gasping for air, Sandalphon was coughing violently; his face was turning colours as if he was having an allergic reaction.

They were herded down the hallway and into the bathroom, Crowley the last one inside, barricading the door.

"Michael's coming," Gabriel said to Sandalphon, evidently attempting to comfort the shell-shocked archangel. "She won't be alone. She's smart – she'll have thought to bring Uriel with her, at the very least. It's going to be okay."

Sandalphon didn't say anything in response.

On the other side of the door, Islington called, "Come out, come out..."

Aziraphale backed up against the tub. Door looked at him funny and – letting go of de Carabas – bent over the angel and whispered something Crowley didn't hear.

A sizzling match dropped through the keyhole of the door. Two more slid underneath.

" _Gabriel_..." called Islington, tauntingly.

Stepping on each match, stomping emphatically in an attempt to put them out before they caught and spread, Crowley cried, "Shit! Shit! _Shit_!" as he struggled to put out each one, only for two more to fall through the keyhole.

Then he wet a towel in the sink and stuck it under the door, even though he thought it wouldn't do much good.

"You know, much as I hate to be the one to state the obvious," said de Carabas, "there appears to be a window directly behind us – we could just as easily be making our escape as cowering here waiting for death."

"'snot a real window," Crowley mumbled. He'd simply thought the bathroom looked nicer with more light and had created the illusion after the landlord refused to let him have an actual window installed there. Some nonsense about zoning and building structure that had made his yellow eyes go glassy with boredom behind their sunglasses.

"Then..." de Carabas looked meaningful at Door. "...if you wouldn't mind...?" His tone was more doubting than hopeful. "If you're not too weak to do it again?"

Aziraphale was _in_ the tub now, though Crowley didn't remember seeing him climb over the rim and wondered what he was doing in there. Door was still bent over him, lifting herself up to respond to de Carabas.

Crowley _stared_ – her blue dress was covered in blood. "You're–"

"No." She swallowed. "It isn't _my_ blood."

Crowley nearly pushed her out of the way as he rushed over, almost forgetting about how a moment ago he was terrified Islington would somehow never run out of matches.

That was all entirely gone from the demon's mind just then, in a flash of realisation.

"Move your hand, angel."

There was blood on Lady Door, smeared across her front – blood on the rim of the tub – blood pooling around the drain under Aziraphale even though no one had run a bath. This wasn't left over from his prank on Gabriel; this was something _real_.

"It's nothing, dear boy," Aziraphale tried, rather pathetically; "we've got to help _them_ – Door and the Marquis and–"

"Aziraphale, move your damn hand."

"Crowley, it doesn't matter – _look_. Look at them." He motioned weakly with his head, vaguely in the direction of Gabriel and Sandalphon, and at first Crowley couldn't understand what the principality was getting all sentimental and protective about, and then he _saw_ them – as if through the angel's own eyes, looking where they lolled – and noticed their hands were clasped together.

Waiting for Michael – or perhaps some intervention from the Almighty, whichever came first, and neither had to be _exclusive_ – the two archangels were huddled together beside the toilet.

They didn't look like the gleeful monsters Crowley remembered from Aziraphale's trial – the ones who were going to let a demon hit a helpless angel and then expected that same angel to shut up and die already. They looked like children who didn't know how they were going to get out of their frightening situation – children who only knew two things: one, that they were each clutching the hand of their best friend and, two, that nothing would persuade them to let go until it was over, until they were safe again.

Of _course_ Aziraphale would see that – understanding it at once – and pity them now. Of _course_ he bloody would!

Crowley reached over and moved Aziraphale's hand himself, then lifted his blood-soaked shirt, ignoring the angel's protests that he was perfectly fine.

There it was: a nasty, deep wound.

How had it happened?

Casting his mind back, Crowley tried to _think_.

No, no, no. It was falling into place in his memory. Islington _had_ gotten one good jab at Aziraphale, before he'd intervened and forced the bastard to drop the sword so Aziraphale could retrieve it.

After that, he had seen little signs of pain from the angel – he had hugged himself that one time, no doubt clutching at the wound, but Crowley had mistaken that for fear of the Hellfire...

He should have known better. Aziraphale was braver than that.

"You stupid idiot," he choked, still crouched over the side of the tub, snaking an arm around his friend. "What'd you have to go and get yourself–"

"Crowley, it's not the end of the world."

It might as well have been. Did he even have to _say_ it? Aziraphale was so clever... How could somebody as clever as him pretend this wasn't happening?

Pretend he wasn't loosing copious amounts of blood, in a room they had no current escape from, and that if he discorporated and went back to Heaven, they might never give him another body.

The angels might keep him there forever.

 _If_ they didn't arrange for another ridiculous trial, now that Gabriel and Sandalphon knew Aziraphale wasn't immune to Hellfire...

Crowley didn't hold any hope of the last few days having changed anything in that regard.

The obvious love and camaraderie Gabriel and Sandalphon were displaying was only for _themselves_ – not for Aziraphale – so it hardly mattered to the demon that they were capable of it.

If Aziraphale was to discorporate now, there was a good chance they'd never see each other – never talk to each other – again.

Crowley couldn't live with that.

He had to think of _something_.


	7. Part 7 of 7

_Angels Below_

A _Good Omens_ and _Neverwhere_ fanfiction

Part **7** of **7**

"You..." Crowley gestured at Door. "Opener girl – Lady Door."

"Yes?"

"Open the cabinet under the sink, there's a first aid kit – bind up Aziraphale's wound as best you can." Seeing her moving to obey him, registering that her hands – already under the sink, finding the kit – looked quick and capable enough, Crowley turned and began pulling back the wet towel and the items he'd used to barricade the bathroom door. "I'll be back."

Sandalphon pulled himself away from the tiny, huddled world he currently inhabited only with Gabriel, though he still clung to his friend's hand – fingers curled and interlocked – as he shifted his weight to glance around, and gawked disbelievingly at Crowley.

Door paused. "Islington will _kill_ you."

Crowley inhaled a sharp, angry breath. "I'd like to see the sorry bastard _try_."

"For mercy's sake, Crowley, _don't_ ," came Aziraphale's faded croak from the tub. "Don't leave."

"Maybe _I_ should–" began Gabriel, starting to rise and making a half-hearted attempt to free his hand from his best friend's tightened grasp. " _Ow_ , Sandalphon."

"No, Gabriel." Crowley shook his head, hand on the doorknob. " _I'm_ the only one in this flat immune to Hellfire" – and that included _Islington_ , for all his psychotic bravado – "remember?"

"Gabriel, don't let him," rasped Aziraphale, as if the archangel could or would stop the demon.

But Gabriel – absolved of anything remotely resembling guilt by the demon's refusal of his perfunctory offer – looked away, clearly considering his duty quite _done_.

Crowley turned the knob, threw himself out, and slammed the door protectively behind him.

The angel in the tub moaned softly.

* * *

Islington was so startled by the bathroom door opening, he instinctively stepped back – and then Crowley was standing before him, glowering.

"You can't keep him from me for _ever_ , Raphael."

"You think this is about _Gabriel_?" hissed Crowley, leaning closer to the angel. "You think I'd come out here to fight you over _him_?"

"Oh, I know it's not – but the fact remains that you're still _in my way_." He blinked, setting the still-open jar of Hellfire down in front of the door. His expression did not hold pity, as he was quite behind that at this point, but rather raw _blame_. "You know, if you'd gotten out of it sooner, your stout companion wouldn't have been hurt. Now you'll all suffer – all pay for what's been done to me."

Slamming his fists into Islington's chest, Crowley knocked the angel against the nearest wall. "If Aziraphale discorporates, if I lose him like this, your time in the underside will feel like a _picnic_ compared to what I'll do to you – Heaven won't have anything _left_ to punish."

"And if you touch me again, you sorry excuse for a fallen angel," whispered Islington, "I'll have your flaming head removed from your shoulders send it to Hell in a handbasket with a letter to Lucifer, reminding him that he's _next_." With that threat, raw power sparked from Islington, hot from long-term disuse, and sent Crowley rolling and skittering across the polished floor.

Crowley's thin body rolled to a stop, and Islington lifted a foot to kick him in the ribs.

A raised arm sent the angel sprawling in the opposite direction.

Risen to his knees, Crowley snarled and his black wings unfolded behind him, bristled and flapping angrily.

With raw hatred burning in their eyes, glowing respectively pearl and amber, the two beings of angelic origins charged at each other.

* * *

Door had lifted Aziraphale up so she could bind his wound. She had very little experience binding wounds, save her own – the one or the twice – but she did her best. It didn't help that his blood kept seeping through, turning white bandages into spreading puddles of scarlet.

Face gone white as chalk, Aziraphale scarcely noted her efforts, though they bordered on herculean; he was too busy trying to reason with Gabriel.

"They'll be _murdering_ each other out there!" wheezed the angel. "He was like you once, Gabriel – he was an archangel, he was _Raphael_ – shouldn't that _mean_ something to you?"

"No," snapped Sandalphon, petulantly, now clutching at Gabriel's arm rather desperately. "It _doesn't_."

But Gabriel was quite changed. There was somebody a little – a _very_ little – nicer behind his violet eyes in that moment, somebody who wasn't entirely unreachable.

He wrangled free of a sputtering, almost _crying_ Sandalphon – whose face was flickering between shades of outraged crimson and a strangled purple almost the same shade as Gabriel's own eyes – and made for the door, opting to kick it open rather than to struggle with the knob.

"Oh, good lord," sighed the Marquis de Carabas, rolling his eyes and sitting down on the toilet-seat with a tired shake of his head. "One of you please be so good as to remind me never to leave London Below again – regardless of the reason – for as long as I happen to live. That is, if I live long enough to return there, which – quite frankly – is looking more doubtful by the second."

" _Hey_!" Gabriel bellowed into the hallway, which had grown a little lighter as it was nearly dawn. "Islington!"

Two bloodied faces several feet away turned to look at him. Crowley blessed under his breath; Islington's red smile, complete with a split lip, spread at the sight of him.

It made a running leap for the jar of Hellfire, half-buried under the splintered wood of the bathroom door.

Crowley snagged its legs and sent it crashing to the floor face-first, bloodying the angel's nose again upon impact.

A wind that might have been from Gabriel's power, or a sort of repellent polar reaction of demonic and angel power not mixing well, or from something entirely else, sucked the three of them down the rest of the hallway, past Crowley's office and the lounge, leaving them sprawled in the open space.

Something glowing a celestial blue crashed through the window. A shard of shattered glass cut one of Crowley's cheeks, making a neat, clean slice.

A stream of red running down the side of his face, Crowley blessed again and shielded his eyes with a raised arm. Lowering it slowly, he saw the light dimming enough to make out the familiar figure of Michael, followed by another flashing glow – this one more greenish-blue – which turned out to be Uriel.

"This stops _here_ , Islington," said Michael, her voice flat, no-nonsense.

It roared in animalistic rage, and – nearly back on its feet – attempted to fly off through the broken window.

The floor bubbled, rippling and turning an ashy texture as something rose from it.

"Well, _shit_ ," murmured Crowley.

It was Beelzebub – and she did _not_ look happy. " _We've_ had quite enough of you as well, angel Islington." Her hand grabbed Islington's left wing and _yanked_. Her fingernails darkened and spread into talons which dug into and pierced its grey wings, holding it firmly in place. "If you think you're running off and leaving us with mountains of paperwork after this – think _again_."

A small smile of satisfaction, of relief started to curl up in the corners of Crowley's mouth before a bad feeling enveloped him and he realised – almost immediately – what it was.

The demon's face fell.

"No, no, no, no." He ran by Gabriel and the others, ignoring them as they bound Islington's hands behind his back and Beelzebub dutifully collected the jar of Hellfire, containing it safely.

Good for them. But what was happening _beyond_ them mattered far more.

Crowley leaped over the broken wood, landing on the cool tile of the bathroom floor.

Within, Sandalphon was straightening his jacket, looking disconcerted; Door's elfin face was tear-stained, her opal eyes puffy; and de Carabas, wringing his hands, kept clearing his throat awkwardly.

Ignoring Sandalphon's hurried question about if _Gabriel_ was all right, Crowley threw himself down hard beside the tub and looked down into it.

There was no angel there. No Aziraphale.

His blood was there, a little, still caked around the drain, but that too was fading – the way all physical parts of an angel tended to dispose of themselves after discorporation – to avoid improper human usage of the remains, which both Heaven and Hell silently agreed didn't benefit either side.

Crowley stared, as if the scene could correct itself.

As if, if he waited a few more minutes, Aziraphale's body could reappear.

Of course, it couldn't, and so it didn't.

A hand patted Crowley's shoulder. "There, there," said de Carabas, well-meaning but ill-suited to this manner of thing – a bit like Crowley himself in that respect, actually. "There."

Crowley brushed the hand off with a weak shudder – he was lost to everything that wasn't his own wretchedness just now.

Aziraphale was right; he shouldn't have gone out to fight Islington. He should have spent the last few moments here, with his best friend, before it was too late. The archangels and Beelzebub would have sorted it out eventually – as they were doing now – anyway.

His bloodied face drawn in and completely helpless, his dilated eyes were at their most snake-like as he continued to stare brokenly at the empty tub.

The demon choked out, disbelievingly, the only words that still had any meaning left for him. "You've _gone_."

* * *

"Hello?" the bodiless angel called into the empty white space. " _Hello_?"

No one answered.

Was he trapped? Was this a locked cell?

It didn't seem to be.

He walked, nobody stopped him.

Earth spun a few feet away, large and blue and impressive. A glimmering jewel in a glowing white box.

A pair of low-ranking angels, looking anxious, hurried past him.

"Excuse me, frightfully sorry to disturb you, _but_ –"

They didn't stop – nor did they seem to realise or care he had no body.

Was this because they were worried, all of Heaven on alert, on account of Islington? Or was it because he'd spent rather a lot of time in London Below lately?

Well, either way, best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, what.

The bodiless angel quickened his pace, stood beside the spinning earth, sighed, and stretched out an exquisitely manicured hand.

He'd figure it out as he went.

 _Again_.

* * *

If things had been different, Crowley would have cared about a lot of things.

He would have cared about the broken windows, for a start. (Who exactly did the archangels, having gone in for the most dramatic arrival when they could've just used the _bloody buzzer_ or, as time _had_ been of the essence, at least miracled the windows open instead of shattering them into a million tiny pieces, think they were? Leaving him with a mess like that!)

He would have cared about the fact that nobody could agree on what was to be done with Islington, now that he'd been captured.

Heaven wanted a speedy execution – Hell wanted, ironically, to keep him alive, though only because no one knew, even now, who his demonic source on everything happening in London Above during his absence _was_ and wanted to torture him until he ratted out the traitor.

But how could Crowley care about any of that with Aziraphale gone? Discorporated. Trapped in Heaven, maybe for ever. What did it matter? Angels, demons. Crowley was beyond hatred and blame. They were all bastards. Each and every damned one of them. He wanted back what they'd taken from him – he wanted his friend. And he didn't dare hope they'd give that to him.

He was in despair.

Behind him, Lady Door was acting strangely. After letting out a strangled yelp only the marquis even bothered to acknowledge, she said, tersely, "I don't...I don't think I _like_ this..."

"Eh?" Crowley turned, thinking she was referring to something the arguing archangels and Beelzebub were saying (something had been done to make Islington temporarily incapable of speech so his wild threats wouldn't drown out their conversation).

She didn't respond to the demon; she appeared to be talking to herself, reassuring herself that it was all right. In a very different voice, once she was calmer: "Oh my, it's much roomier in here than I thought it would be."

Crowley frowned. What the devil was she on about? Was the flat bigger than whatever she was used to?

"I suppose," Michael said, breaking away from the others, "that some manner of reward or commendation is in order for Crowley." She glanced at Beelzebub. "Perhaps that should be _your_ doing? He's a demon, after all."

"He'z not one of uzz," snapped Beelzebub, side-eyeing Crowley pointedly. "Not anymore."

"Well," Uriel put in, "he certainly isn't one of _us_."

Sandalphon shrugged. "Don't see why he should get _anything_. Doesn't _need_ anything, really."

"What about his friend?" de Carabas cut in. "He seems rather upset about that."

"Right, of course." Beelzebub, glancing from de Carabas to Michael, crinkled her forehead under her fly-shaped hat. "Naturally. But, um, which friend'zz that?"

"The angel Aziraphale, I would imagine," said Michael, shaking her head. "But it's quite impossible."

Gabriel hesitated. "Maybe we should just give Aziraphale a new body – this once – and tell him to stay out of trouble."

Crowley's eyes widened. He had not expected this. Not from _Gabriel_ of all people.

"What?" exclaimed Sandalphon. "We couldn't do that – Aziraphale is..."

"Is _what_?" hissed Crowley.

"It isn't that," explained Michael, straightening her cuff. "At the moment, Islington's trial surpasses any punishment Aziraphale deserves. Aziraphale is many things – but he isn't dangerous, and he's never tried to _start_ a war."

"No," Crowley put in, heavily sardonic, "not even when you told him to."

"The problem is, quite simply," Michael went on, ignoring him, "Aziraphale is not in Heaven."

" _What_?" Crowley felt his chest clench.

"I'd know if he was," she insisted. "It's my job to know. He isn't."

"But..." Door stepped forward, and – unexpectedly – slipped her small hand into Crowley's, giving it a friendly squeeze. "If you knew where he was... Would you consider – as a gift to Crowley for letting Gabriel use the flat – giving him another body?"

Crowley stared, puzzled, down at the hand in his own. Door barely knew him. Why was she suddenly so comfortable, so _familiar_ with him? His eyes followed her arm, looked at her face, struggled to see what was possibly there yet just as possibly _wasn't_.

Just _who_ was looking out at him from behind those opal eyes? He didn't know Door well enough to tell the difference.

"Just this once," Gabriel agreed solemnly. "As the circumstances of the last few days have been beyond all of us." Then his violet eyes darkened and Crowley knew Gabriel was still _Gabriel_. "But Aziraphale had better give us a wide berth with it – next time he finds himself without one, he's got a hell of a lot to answer for. And we'll see to it that he begins with the fact that he somehow feigned immunity to Hellfire."

Michael gnawed on her lower lip, considering. "I think Heaven can live with these terms."

"That's all right, then." Door brightened, squeezed Crowley's hand again, let go, then began walking down the hallway with a light-hearted skip.

Crowley followed her, the Marquis de Carabas not far behind, clearly a little concerned.

Door began opening cupboards and taking out the black, copper-rimmed teacups, which she set down merrily on the worktop. "Would either of you care for tea? I'm about to put the kettle on."

"Are you feeling all right?" asked de Carabas, haltingly.

"Absolutely tickety-boo." She moved a stray lock of hair from her face and smiled over her shoulder.

Crowley beamed involuntarily back at her – well, at _him_ , at Aziraphale, inside her, looking out slyly.

"You're not Door," de Carabas realised. "Are you?"

"No, dear Marquis, I'm afraid not." Her hands filled the kettle; her lips moved, as the angel inside her head whistled a hosanna contentedly.

"Where _is_ she?" He cleared his throat, attempting to sound dispassionate. "That is, she still owes me rather a large favour and–"

"Oh, don't worry, she's in here – there's just a lot more room inside her head than there was in Madame Tracy's. I've got a bit more control, kindly allowed the run of the place by the thoughtful young lady in question." Her hands took Aziraphale's favourite teaspoons from the drawer and set them beside the teacups and matching saucers. "But now that Heaven has promised me a new body I won't impose on her hospitality for much longer. Everything's going to work out now. It's all going to be quite lovely."

"Aziraphale, you _stupid_ –" blurted Crowley, leaning across the island.

Door's hand reached over and pressed itself flat against Crowley's cut cheek from earlier, healing it. Then, he said, "Crowley, my dear, if you wouldn't mind getting a few things down for me?" And the accompanying angelic megawatt smile, even though it was on Door's face, was so shamelessly – so _utterly_ – Aziraphale, Crowley stood no chance against it. "Lady Door can't _quite_ reach everything I'm used to fetching for tea. The tray, for a start."

Crowley could have said a million things. That Aziraphale had _scared_ him and he was _furious_. That there was no point fixing tea for a bunch of fussy supernatural entities who sure as anything weren't going to _drink_ it. That there was so much still unresolved and, even supposing the archangels kept their word and he was given a new body, things wouldn't go back to how they'd been before all this, not exactly, because how _could_ they?

That–

He _could_ have said, but he didn't.

* * *

They were all gathered around the pool at the Lady Door's house. It was an associative house, meaning this room was not attached to any of the others and – without her opening it up for them and coming along – no one could leave the pool and go elsewhere.

So, for just now, only the pool room was accessible and open to those she wished it to be.

This made it somewhat ideal for a meeting of demons and angels – no one could go too far off to scheme, if they wished to scheme.

Door was uneasy, the last time she'd been near this pool, she'd seen her dead brother floating in it. But at least her mind was her own again; the angel Aziraphale – in a body that looked very much the same as the one that had danced the gavotte with her – was a few feet away, munching on the hors d'oeuvres she'd set out while Crowley circled around him, peering anxiously over at Gabriel and Beelzebub, whose heads were bent close together.

"If they're getting along," murmured Aziraphale over his shoulder to Crowley, swallowing, "this may not be _good_. It could be the start of what you predicted – demons and angels against...against..." He trailed off, as if it were unbearable to finish.

The demon grimaced.

Beelzebub suddenly broke off from her huddle with Gabriel, whose arms were folded angrily across his chest, and stormed past them, muttering, " _Azzhole_."

"Uh... _Right_. I don't think we have anything to worry about," Crowley sighed, relieved. "Not yet."

"What do you suppose they'll do with Islington?" Aziraphale wondered next. "I mean, if they don't destroy him, and he comes back..."

"You really think they'll let him out of their sight again?" snorted Crowley, shaking his head. "Not even Gabriel is that dense. Islington's bound to be under constant surveillance in Heaven from now on. Or Hell, if Beelzebub eventually gets her way."

"Am I late for the party?" said a voice that was unfamiliar to the angels and demons present but very dear to Door, who whirled around and raced towards it.

" _Richard_!"

The Marquis de Carabas stood by the side of a young Scottish man, into whose arms Door flung herself, squealing with unrestrained delight. "Look who I found lurking about the outskirts of London Above – calling out for us like a lost child."

"Isn't that touching?" Aziraphale smiled warmly at the reunited pair. The principality felt slightly less apprehensive about leaving her behind in London Below for ever, knowing they'd likely never meet again, now that she had Richard back for company.

"I expect," Crowley sniffed, giving a little shrug of forced carelessness, "you'll want to be getting back to your bookshop, now that things are falling back into place?"

"Oh, there's no hurry," Aziraphale said gently, giving his friend a slight nudge with the corner of his elbow. "I thought perhaps we could have dinner somewhere nice. We could talk about my time in London Below and how you got on with Gabriel – I'm simply _dying_ to learn if the police were ever actually called. And I expect it'll be easier for you to just drive us back to the flat again after we've finished eating." He linked his arm around Crowley's companionably. "The closed sign's still up in the shop – it can always wait another day or two."

* * *

Perhaps the recent exertions had had some fallout on the nature of reality – on the gaps between London Above and London Below – for shortly before closing, following the first day after Aziraphale reopened the bookshop, he sold a copy of _Mansfield Park_ he had not previously known he possessed.

Nobody save the angel himself saw the buyer – a rather messy-looking, red-haired girl practically drowning in the oversized leather jacket she wore over her mismatched clothing – but she was there, right enough.

_fin_


End file.
